Winds of Future Change
by ShiiroiKitsune21
Summary: Haytham was alone once his home was burned; his family was either dead, kidnapped or refused to talk with him. Everyone but a quiet hooded spirit, who seemed to know more than he himself did. AU after a while.
1. Prologue: Alone, but Not Really

**Prologue**

 **Alone, but not Really**

Haytham felt his life shatter into a million pieces.

Smoke. Shouts. Swords. Blood. Mother, and sister and father.

 _Father_. Stabbed in the chest, torn away from him forever, returning only as a nightmare. _Pain_ , more than Haytham thought he could handle, and more than he thought he'd have to bear at ten.

Because he turned ten just a week ago, didn't he? Father would have told him what he was training for, and he always had that _smile_ when he said Haytham would receive a present.

A small, childish part of him wanted to pretend that night never happened. To wake up again and hear his Father say _happy birthday, son, follow me._ He wanted to pick up the shards of his life and put them back together.

But he couldn't. And he didn't know how to deal with the emotions welling up in his chest.

There was nobody he could talk to: his father was dead ( _dead, gone forever_ ), his sister taken away who-knew-where, and his mother refused to talk to him. She saw him kill a man, but it was for her sake, wasn't it? Surely she would look at him again, right?

When he'd return home after this travel with Reginald Birch (who he didn't feel comfortable with yet), surely she'd give him the same comfort she offered before that night, right?

They were travelling to a place in France, he had said. A place where he could learn, train, and eventually avenge his family. Because Father wasn't the only one dead – Haytham could almost picture a part of himself burning to ashes, like his home did.

Then, looking at Britain's fading coasts from the railing of the ship, Haytham felt someone watching him.

He ignored whoever was doing it until the feeling of his (her?) eyes on his back made him squirm from sheer intensity.

Haytham turned his head at the watcher to his right and blinked. Who was that man?

He was easily the biggest man the boy had ever seen, and probably the darker skinned. Or maybe it was just because of the shadows his white hood casted on his face. He also had at least a ton of weapons weighting on his broad shoulders, and the most curious decorations here and there on his clothing. Its stark white made Haytham wonder how it was possible that man hadn't been noticed.

The man was still staring, almost as if he was trying to read his thoughts.

Haytham blurted the first thing that came to his mind. "Who are you?"

The hooded man tilted his head, and Haytham noticed his dark eyes and the tiny braid hanging on the right side of his face. He seemed to think about his answer. "Connor. And you?"

"Haytham-" he almost told his middle name – _Father's name_ – but his throat suddenly closed up. "…Haytham… Kenway."

Connor's expression turned even more undecipherable. Then that moment passed and he said, almost too casually- "It is unusual for someone so young to travel by ship. Where are you going?"

"…He said I shouldn't tell."

"Who is 'he'?" Connor looked a little too curious to know, and Haytham found himself hesitating. His father hadn't done anything and they killed him. What if someone heard and they killed Birch, too?

"I-"

"Haytham, who are you talking to?"

The boy turned around, not expecting his father's friend sneaking up behind him. He glanced once at Connor – who stared blankly at him, not helping in the slightest – and Birch still had a suspicious frown. "Uh… I saw someone."

He glanced repeatedly at Connor, hoping that Birch would get the obvious hint. The older man looked right where Connor was, but he didn't seem to see him. "…Sure. Just don't talk to strangers, or you'll get yourself in danger."

The suspicious air around him suddenly vaporized and he managed a tiny smile. "Dinner will be served in five minutes, Haytham – follow me."

Resisting the urge to look back at Connor, Haytham followed Birch below deck.

* * *

Over the brief voyage to France, the hooded man kept watching him.

Haytham continued glancing around him, looking for signs that he wasn't the only one that could see Connor – it would speak volumes of his mental state if he was. Birch sure didn't seem to notice the huge hooded man.

So Haytham mostly tried to keep an eye on the man without speaking to him, and Connor seemed to be more than alright with that. They watched each other everywhere around the ship, and still did when they docked in France.

But after the nightmares that plagued his sleep recently, Haytham would accept just about any kind of comfort.

He gasped quietly as he woke, drenched in sweat and shaking. He could swear his mother was still watching him through shocked eyes, his sister still screaming at her kidnappers, his father still bleeding out on the floor and the flames rising higher and higher _and higher-_

Two hands settled on his shaking shoulders and Haytham tried to tear himself from them, but the man just wouldn't let him away.

"Why-"

"I understand."

Haytham stopped altogether his attempts to leave. "What?" he asked shakily.

For a moment he thought Connor wasn't going to answer, then- "The nightmares. The fire." He tightened his hold slightly, as if replaying it in his mind's eye. "The death."

The younger boy sagged in his arms. "You, too?"

Connor nodded, although Haytham could only feel it by leaning on his chest. He wasn't an hallucination, he dimly thought. Hallucinations don't feel solid, do they? They don't feel warm, either.

Haytham didn't feel like telling what had happened, and Connor quietly offered his comfort and understanding for the rest of the night until Birch came knocking on the room's door and announced they were leaving.

"…Thank you."

Connor just nodded again and followed the boy out of the inn.

* * *

 **I had an idea. I wrote said idea. I liked the idea. If you do as well, I will continue ;)**


	2. Chapter 1: Two Sides, Two Ideals

**Chapter 1**

 **Two Sides, Two Ideals**

For a whole month afterwards Birch continued his father's teachings in all subjects, swordsmanship included.

Days and evenings spent reading books, discussing philosophy and practicing with wooden sticks – Connor would quietly watch the boy study and exercise, adding his thoughts only when Birch turned around or wasn't there.

He would offer comfort at night, and Haytham had come to consider him as his invisible friend. There were times he just couldn't sleep, and Connor would tell him some parts of his life in a little 'city', in his tribe or what he thought about that day's lesson.

"How do you hunt a bear?" This time Connor was telling of a time he had gotten a bear pelt with a woman named Myriam, and Haytham wanted to know everything. "Are they really big?"

The man nodded, his hood now resting on his shoulders. "They can be very big, and dangerous: it is wiser to hunt them from afar, so that they don't notice you until they are weakened enough. But it is possible to kill one with... daggers." Haytham almost frowned at the pause. "There were a lot of people where I lived that saw a bear around, and they called Myriam and me to take care of it."

"Was she trained to fight?" Haytham asked, then his expression faltered. "Unlike… unlike Jenny?"

Connor had heard that Jenny was Haytham's sister, kidnapped by God knew who and carried who-knew-where. He tilted his head. "I do not know. She didn't speak much of her life before coming to live there."

"Where did you live?"

Connor frowned. "Far away from here, in the Colonies."

"The Colonies?" Haytham repeated softly, as not to wake Birch who slept in the room nearby. "Aren't they on the other side of the ocean?"

"…Yes."

"You came all the way from _there_?" his blue eyes were wide in amazement, then he frowned as well. Had he looked in a mirror, he would have noticed the suspicious likeness of Connor's features in his. "And… for what? Why did you come here?"

"…I am uncertain of that myself," Connor replied vaguely. How could one _not_ be sure of why he travelled so far? "I just…"

He stopped short, looking around the room. Then he quickly stepped to the nearby window and climbed out of it without a word to Haytham, who was left gaping at the nerve of that man. Why was he leaving all of a sudden?!

Just as he thought about shouting for him to come back, Connor hopped inside the room.

 _"_ _What was it about?!"_ Haytham hissed, annoyed beyond measure that the hooded man – he must have put it on again – just left in the middle of a conversation.

"There are people outside that want to help you."

 _"Help me?"_ Haytham repeated, baffled. " _Help me?!_ What if they want to kill me instead! We have to get Master Birch-"

Connor reached for his shoulder and shook his head. "No."

Ten-year-old Haytham glared with all his anger. "Why not?!"

The man seemed to consider how he should answer. He settled on being blunt. "He is a Templar. They are Assassins, as was your father."

"He was _what_?"

Birch calmly opened the door. "Haytham, pack your things. We're going now."

Haytham almost thought about arguing, but the six-odd armed men behind him – among which there was Edward Braddock, a man that both Connor and Haytham openly disliked – made him keep his mouth shut. He nodded instead, and two of the men grabbed whatever heavy things the boy had and stuffed them into the boxes.

"Why are we going? And where?"

"Now is not the moment, Haytham." Birch kept glancing to the windows and the stairs. He seemed calm, but Connor affirmed he should be anything but that. "Let's be off."

They hastily left into the main street, with three tall men guarding each of them. Edward shot the boy a disdainful look before pretending he didn't exist and leading everyone to a nearby carriage in the middle of the night.

Braddock held the reins while the other men hopped on board, with Connor hanging outside the carriage – just in case it turned out he can touch and someone realized he was there. He did talk, though.

"There are three Assassins outside the inn: when I said they might help you, I meant it. They want to bring you back in Britain and continue your father's training as he would have."

Haytham raised an eyebrow at him, looking through the carriage's window.

"You…" Connor hesitated. "You should become an Assassin."

The boy's irritated look easily translated to: _"And what do you want me to do about it?"_

The hooded man held his stare for some seconds before bluntly stating, "I will not wait and watch as you become a Templar. I am willing to train and help you if you agree to leave Birch."

" _What?!_ "

"What have you seen, Haytham?"

He turned around to face Birch. He didn't seem particularly patient or willing to hear him complaining about an invisible hooded man hanging on the carriage and stating he should betray his father's friend. "I thought I saw someone following us," he replied through gritted teeth. It was the truth… more or less.

Birch's expression soured and he all but shoved Haytham aside to look. "Nobody's outside following us," stated the man, half-relieved.

Connor eyed the branches and the street, and remained silent for the rest of the ride.

* * *

They had reached a castle four days later, and no one had wanted to speak until then.

But Haytham had had enough time to ponder on what this Templars-Assassins conflict could be, and was done with vague answers by his personal ghost.

"What is this war you told me about?" He hissed once he managed to corner the hooded man in his room two days after their arrival. "This time I want to know everything. _All of it_."

Connor opened his mouth. Closed it. Stared.

Then he sighed. "Both Assassins and Templars want peace, but their means differ. Your father," here Haytham narrowed his eyes, "I and many others fight or have fought for the Assassin cause – that of a peace born from freedom, where everyone learnt to respect each other."

Haytham didn't say anything, and Connor continued. "The Templars, such as Birch and Braddock, want to pull the strings behind the whole world. That peace born from absolute control would be little more than a tyranny, where everyone is forced to obey the Templars." The hooded man stared straight into the boy's eyes. "No one could form their own opinion, like your father told you to."

The younger stayed silent.

"Both groups want to achieve their goal, no matter the cost…" here Connor's eyes clouded, seeing something Haytham couldn't. "But we Assassins have the Creed. Three tenets that put a limit to what we are allowed to do – 'Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocents', 'Hide in plain sight' and ' Never compromise the Brotherhood'."

He sighed again, shaking his head. "I… cannot claim to know everything about the Templars, but… I've heard the phrase 'May the Father of Understanding guide us'. I am not the right person to explain their mentality, though."

Haytham kept staring. Was he trying to read Connor's expression? He surely didn't seem to get something out of it, and the boy eventually moved his gaze to the door.

It creaked open and a man – Bryce was his surname, he remembered – poked his head into the room. "Master Birch wants you in his study," he quietly said, "immediately."

Haytham nodded and made his way through the castle – almost getting lost twice, but Connor pointed him to the right hallways – until he stood in front of Birch's office. He knocked and the man on the other side allowed him in.

* * *

"Haytham. I hope you're well." Reginald titled his head slightly, looking at the boy. His left knee was bruised since yesterday, when the man had swiftly hit him with a wooden sword. The younger Kenway didn't seem to mind – actually, he looked quite distracted. "Haytham, is everything alright?"

"Yes, sir."

Birch nodded. Children don't have the same focus as adults, even if they behaved like one. "Then we may begin this lesson, if you sit."

Haytham did as instructed.

The Templar stared at him. He still seemed distracted for some unknown reason. It wouldn't be good to discuss philosophy – and subtly sway him to the Order's side – without his full focus. "What is troubling you?"

The boy's eyes darted to a corner in the room before refocusing on Birch. "I was just… thinking."

"Thinking about what?"

"About…" he frowned. "…the future."

"Why are you worried about the future?" Why did he think about that at all, if he already knew he was going to avenge Edward's murder and find his sister? Not that he will, not for a long time.

"I…" why was he hesitating? Shame? "What if…"

"What if _what_?" Birch could not hold back the irritation out of his voice. They were wasting precious time, but Haytham had to feel welcome and so the Templar had to listen to his problems and offer advice.

The younger Kenway flinched. "Father was training me to fight. You're training me to fight. Why are you training me to fight?" he hesitantly turned his blue eyes at the man, then added- "…sir?"

Well, wasn't this the perfect opportunity to jump onto Templar ideology. His job had been made a hundred times faster. He sighed, leaning back on his chair as if in thought, but inwardly celebrating this turn of events.

"That's something I hesitated to bring up," he admitted, "but since you asked, I can tell you." Reginald stopped briefly to look at the boy. "That is, if you want me to – your father himself hesitated to tell you the purpose of your training."

Haytham turned a mild glare at a corner of the room before looking at Birch again. "I wish to know, sir."

"Very well." He nodded. Everything was going so smoothly he hardly believed it. "You already know there are many different nations, each with their own govern and leader. But there is another… distinction, we can say, that divides a man from another."

He had his full attention. Good.

"There are two secret factions, which I doubt you've heard of – the Assassins and the Templars." Reginald waited for his statement to sink in and watched Haytham for any reaction that hinted at his thoughts.

His eyes darted once again to the further corner on the boy's right, near the shelves full of books. Then to the table in front of him and again into the Templar's eyes. He was absolutely still and his breathing was even. Did he hear of them already? Surely, he would have been informed of it.

"It's a conflict that has been going on for centuries, Haytham. The first documents date back to the Crusades, but many suspect it probably began during the Roman Republic, maybe even earlier." Haytham's eyes widened. He wondered how much information could the boy take before bursting into a thousand questions.

"Both work for peace, but have opposing ways to achieve it. The Assassins think they can make the whole humanity learn to never repeat their mistakes – wars, conflicts, massacres, murders, robberies… rather hypocritical of them, don't you think?" Birch smirked, noting once again how Haytham glanced at the same corner.

He was almost sorry for poor dead Edward. Almost.

"On the other side stand the Templars, who instead seek to control – not forcefully, of course – the upper classes of society and, in turn, the lower ones. As history as shown, people want only three things: food, shelter and someone who tells them what to do." Haytham seemed ready to argue, but Reginald had not finished yet.

"By giving them those, they wouldn't feel the need to fight or steal – which in turn grants peace. The upper classes would keep to themselves and offer food and protection to everyone." He felt a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "A way more detailed plan than the Assassins', isn't it?"

"You see, Haytham, all those events we want to stop – they're just symptoms. They're not the cause of conflicts, but the effect. It's because of the human nature to yearn for more that people have fought against each other for thousands of years. The Assassins don't look at the right problem."

"I, as all the people in this castle, are part of the Templar Order." Nearly smirking at Haytham's surprised expression – he can control his shock, very good – he took off the Templar ring on his right hand and allowed Haytham to examine it. He didn't bother to tell him to be careful – he didn't want to ruin that moment, after all.

The younger Kenway, ten years of age and almost two months under his wing, was already interested in the Order and inspected the silver ring with the utmost care and curiosity. His little fingers, already used to hold a sword, traced the intricate patterns carved on the ring and his eyes admired the ruby cross inserted on it.

Things were looking up for him.

* * *

Connor was sickened.

Birch spoke more and more passionately the more he explained the flaws of the Assassins and how the Templars were right. All of that without even considering what a true Assassin would say. At least Connor had listened to the Templars he killed, and listened to his father when he defended his Order.

The same father who was listening to Birch, sitting mere feet away from Connor and admiring the Templar ring he would one day wear.

If Connor didn't have a say in it, of course. He wasn't giving up so easily.

And it was clear how much Birch's opinion was biased. At least the Native had admitted he didn't know enough to give a detailed description of a Templar's mindset – Birch simply ran his mouth to sway Haytham to the Templars.

If Reginald was younger than he looked, Connor might have thought he didn't know enough. He was like that once: thinking the world and the people were either good or bad, black or white.

Then came Johnson, who justified himself by saying he wanted to help his tribe. (As if. He was killing the very people he was trying to 'protect'. Connor had not believed him.)

Then came Pitcairn, who made him truly notice that if the Templars didn't take control, someone else would have. (Better anyone else than the Templars, he was sure of it. But he still wondered, hearing the insults the bluecoats yelled at him, if anyone should have power.)

Then Hickey, who showed him that many people had very basic needs and cared for little else. (And if very few cared for the greater good, how could the world change for the better?)

Even Church made him think with his last words. (Was there truly a 'good' and a 'bad' side?)

His father was the one who spoke the most for the Templars in general, not only his actions. Order, purpose and direction. Peace born of control and cold logic. How the Patriots would turn their backs on their allies and the neutrals. How the cycle would repeat itself again and again. (Had they had no chance to find a common goal beyond the murder of a man?)

Thinking of Charles Lee once made his blood boil, but now he felt nothing. He had asked why he still fought if this cycle would just keep repeating. And Connor fought because he thought he was right. (Then he looked behind him, and the trail of blood he had left in his wake, wondering.)

Connor had grown wiser because of his experience. Birch, apparently, had not.

Or most likely, he just wanted Haytham to become a Templar without doubting his beliefs.

Well. If Birch didn't want to paint the Assassin at least in a decent light, Connor would.

* * *

 **Philosophy Chapter! Not-Subtle Swaying to the Templars!**

 **...Yay, I guess?**


	3. Chapter 2: Instinct and Sight

**Chapter 2**

 **Instinct and Sight**

During the next year and a half, Haytham had trained hard.

Swords, daggers, endurance, strength, speed, quick thinking, reflexes – Birch left nothing for Connor to teach. Well, everything but Hidden Blades (which they didn't have), survival in the woods (he wasn't allowed to go beyond castle walls), archery and Assassin ideology (he sure as hell wasn't leaving the last one to Birch).

Haytham even tried hand-to-hand combat – and failed with as much dignity as he could muster when Birch kept pointing out what he needed to work a lot on, often with the younger sprawled across the floor or the field in a bruised heap.

The nightmares had slowly become less intense – or maybe the now eleven-year-old Kenway had learned how to hide his emotions – but it wasn't rare for Connor to find the boy quietly whimpering, or wiping tears off his face at the night.

The Assassin wondered if he was pushing himself so hard just because of revenge, as he had done before. He remembered being always restless and impatient, hoping to strike the Templars down and protect his people. He remembered Achilles always trying to either calm him down or make him see how reckless he was, or how wrong it was to go shouting 'Templars are evil' from the rooftops.

He had actually attempted that, once. In the Homestead. At night, when nobody but a few wolves were awake. And Achilles still chased him with his cane and threatened to use him as target practice.

Connor felt a pang of pain at the thought of his Mentor. He had died alone, when Connor was too busy tracking Lee down.

But he wasn't dead yet, was he? His death was in his past, but not in this future he found himself in as a ghost. A ghost that could, apparently, touch and lift things.

The terrified maid – a certain Miss Maywood – that was in the kitchen that time was proof enough. ("The knife was moving by itself! Cutting steak! Steak, I say! By itself!" she had said and fainted a second later. A man had been assigned to guard the kitchen since then.)

The hooded invisible man was startled out of his thoughts when he and Haytham reached the courtyard of the castle.

It was full of muskets and guns.

Racks upon racks of firearms, all of them lined up and ready to shoot, were arranged in a vast part of the courtyard. None, he noted, were near the castle wall. Nobody was, either – ten men were all conversing next to the racks, but stopped when Birch approached them.

More suspicious yet, there was no target.

"Guns so soon?" Connor quietly wondered. Haytham shrugged and remained silent.

Birch told his men to grab their muskets and wait before turning to the boy. "Haytham," he began, "I'm sure you remember what exercise we did yesterday."

He still had the cuts from those throwing knives, wrapped and stinging. "I do, sir." he said and nodded, ignoring Connor's sour look.

"This is just the same." Birch put a hand between his shoulder blades and nudged him towards the wall. Then it clicked and Haytham dug his heels in the dirt, with the Templar dragging him almost effortlessly. "Only with guns."

"B-But, Master Birch…!"

The man smiled – haughtily, if Connor might add his opinion – in what he had probably mistaken for a reassuring grin. "While dodging and blocking are essential, taking hits is no less important-"

"From _guns_?!"

"-and you may also find yourself in stalemates or fights where you need to remain calm and focused with guns pointed or firing at you-"

Haytham made another terrified squeak, one that sounded vaguely like 'I don't want to!' but could have been 'oh God why me' for all Birch seemed to care. Then he eyed Connor with a look that begged him to do something and make him stop.

Connor couldn't look at the boy longer than a second before he decided to make use of his ability to touch objects and people. And hurt them. A lot.

He shoved the nearest weapon rack behind the ten Templars (most likely mercenaries, like Hickey).

"What the-"

Connor then smacked two guards behind their heads.

"James, did you just-"

"Don't lie! It's you-"

Then he grabbed a gun and hit a man behind his right knee. The man screamed in pain and turned around to face the offender with a curse, but saw only a fallen weapon.

"Who the fuck-"

"TOM…!"

"I'm so cutting off your-!"

The other men were accidentally hit in the brawl that followed and joined it with renewed battle cries and insults.

"All of you, stay still!"

Everyone comically froze to their leader's command. More than one had a knife in their hands, a couple had two guns each and the rest was either clutching their bruised body parts or someone else's.

Birch was fuming and unsettled, and he couldn't blame this abnormal phenomenon on anyone. (Did that gun move by itself?! Was Maywood actually right?!) "Clean up this mess immediately!"

The guards instantly hurried to put the racks upright and grabbed a musket each, limping or gritting their teeth against the pain someone had inflicted them. They still eyed each other warily.

Haytham glanced at Connor. _"Thank you, even if they'll still shoot at me."_

Connor looked back apologetically. _"Killing them doesn't seem wise. Breaking out in broad daylight doesn't, either."_

The younger Kenway looked between the castle wall, Birch and Connor. _"I'll live. Maybe."_

"Come on, Haytham," Reginald calmly said, nudging him forward. "They won't shoot unless I say so and from this distance it's impossible to hit what you're not aiming at." At the boy's still frightened look, he added- "They won't aim at you. It will just feel like they do."

Still reluctant and unsure whether this was a good idea, Haytham took a deep breath and made his way to the wall.

* * *

Two guards who hadn't been involved in the brawl stood in front of Haytham's room.

"Just in case," Birch had said. "Children sure know how to be unpredictable when emotions are concerned, and shooting at one is sure to traumatize him. But it needed to be done in order to take one problem out of the way."

Charles didn't agree but kept his mouth shut. No use protesting about something already done, and he rather liked having all his limbs thank you very much.

What made him really worry was what he and his comrade were hearing from the door.

"It isn't even a scratch!" they heard him wail.

Silence.

"I just fell- And stop looking at me like that!" Charles shot a concerned glance at the door. "It doesn't hur- STOP IT! Alright alright it hurts now STOP IT!"

The guard was now very nervous. Who was the boy talking to?

"Why did I jump?" the boy asked, disbelieving. It sounded like he repeated it, but he hadn't heard anything before. " _Why_ did I jump?! They didn't have only swords that night! And- no, they didn't care to alert half London- The _fire_ , Connor! _They- They-"_

The boy's next sentence dissolved into tears and sobs, and Charles felt his heart clench painfully. He was a father himself, when he had some time off to spend with his family. It was so heart breaking to hear this little child cry and just do nothing.

"Who's 'Connor'?" his companion asked, frowning. It was as if he didn't hear the boy's – Haytham, was he? – cries.

But that was a good question. Who was this 'Connor' he spoke to? There was no 'Connor' with Kenway blood or working for them. There was no 'Connor' working at the castle, either. They would have known.

His comrade – Nathan, most likely, but he looked an awful lot like James – scowled and swung the door open, ignoring Charles's protest not to.

The boy was sitting on the bed, holding his face in his hands. Crying and sniffling, not even turning to face the newcomers. Charles felt his paternal instinct roar to life.

But it was Nathan-or-maybe-James who spoke first. "Who were ya talking to?"

Haytham looked at him, then jumped with a gasp. His eyes were wide and… were they shining? Charles shook his head. It wasn't possible – it must have been a trick of the dim light the moon offered.

"You should be sleeping, Haytham," he gently suggested. The young Kenway nodded and slowly huddled in the white blankets he had.

Nathan scoffed and returned to where he was an instant later, while Charles bid a quiet 'goodnight' before carefully closing the door behind him.

* * *

Haytham did not sleep. He was too frightened to.

He turned his eyes on Connor, who had watched the exchange without blinking.

"I apologize for bringing it up," the not-anymore hooded man said, genuinely sorry. "I did not think before speaking. It was… insensitive of me."

"I-It's alright." Haytham tried to wipe the tears off his face. He was supposed to be better than this, but he wasn't. "I… something strange… happened," he whispered.

Connor frowned, waiting for him to elaborate.

"The people. They…" he hid the lower half of his face under the blanket. "They… shone. Different colours. Even now."

People shining different colours. He should have expected this. "Ah," he breathed. "I see."

Haytham frowned suspiciously at him. "See what?" he asked, probably expecting him to just shrug it off or something.

"Eagle Sight. You have the Eagle Sight." The boy just looked at him, huddled under the blankets. He looked like a cat, looking at an outstretched hand and wondering if it meant well or not.

So Connor elaborated. "It is a special ability a few people have, which allows to know if someone means harm or not, if they have information or they are what you are looking for." He titled his head. "It is very useful to know if you can trust someone, or where your target is hiding. I have even heard of someone who could see his target's footsteps everywhere."

Haytham's eyes were as wide as saucers. "What colours are the people?"

"Five, as far as I've seen – and yes, I have the Eagle Sight as well – blue, red, white, gold and gray." Then he pondered on something. "Actually, gray people don't shine. But it is a colour nonetheless."

"What do they mean?"

"Blue means ally. Comrade. Someone who is loyal to you and helps you because he wants to." Connor's eyes unfocused slightly, probably remembering someone. "White means information. Someone who can give advice or has any kind of useful information."

"Gold means importance, both good and bad. It depends on what you are searching for – if you are looking for a particular trusted person, he or she will glow gold. If you are looking for the person you have to kill, they will glow gold as well." Connor looked straight into Haytham's eyes. Even if it was night, he could tell he was somewhat distressed.

"Red means enemy. Someone who has the means to hurt you and will do so if given a reason. Usually someone you can't trust." He frowned, again remembering something or someone. "I used to work with someone who glowed red nearly all the time. But near the end of our… deal," the way he said it sounded strange to Haytham, "he was glowing blue. I never understood why until I read part of his journal."

"So… after some time… red people glow blue?" the boy hesitantly asked.

Connor could tell Haytham was scared and trying very hard to hide it. "Who is glowing red to you?"

The younger Kenway hid further into the blankets and remained silent.

"Who is glowing red to you?" the Assassin pressed.

After a brief staring contest – which Connor nearly lost, since both were stubborn as a family trait – Haytham relented. "Many of the guards are red. Miss Maywood and few others are blue."

"And Birch?"

He didn't look like he wanted to answer. "Gold."

He wasn't lying. Good. Now for the final test… "What was he doing when he glowed gold?"

A brief pause. "He was ordering them to shoot."

* * *

 **I'm probably going to Hell because of that traumatic event. Buuuuuut... Eagle Sight! :D**


	4. Chapter 3: Digging Deeper in The Past

**Chapter 3**

 **Digging Deeper in The Past**

* * *

Haytham was tense. Even after another couple of months, he couldn't stop wondering.

Why was Master Birch glowing gold?

What kind of importance did he represent?

Why did some guards glowed a red so vivid it hurt his eyes?

(Of course, he didn't wonder that when Braddock came back in January and told Master Birch he was empty-handed again. The only thing he shared with him was deep dislike, if not hatred.)

Why were there two people trying to get him on different sides of the Assassins-Templars conflict?

Why couldn't they just leave him alone?

Well, maybe not Connor. He always glowed the brightest shade of blue. Bright like the sun, and as just as warm. Even if they didn't always agree and sometimes didn't speak to each other for weeks, he never stopped shining blue.

In a sea of colour-changing people, he liked having someone stay the same.

When Haytham had hoped to get a slice of cake – Connor said something smelled like chocolate, and the younger didn't hesitate much before following – from the kitchen unnoticed, Miss Maywood had flickered red for a moment, then resumed her blue. It never became as bright as before, though.

When Birch was teaching him not to be afraid of fire and made some guards hold him still, the one who tried to comfort him – Charles something? – glowed a brighter blue. The other man turned instead a brighter red, then white, then red again.

When he was speaking with Connor, two other guards – two that once shined white – glowed red. They had been that colour since then.

Haytham sighed, jogging in the warm spring air of April. Out of the forty-five guards, twenty-eight were red, ten were bluish, two were gray and five glowed white. Only Birch was gold, and he had yet to discover what kind of gold it was.

He had wanted to bring the subject up, but Connor had shook his head. "If he knows your instinct does not trust him, we do not know what he might do," he had firmly said. "Unless he is so important to you that he glows gold, he should always be blue. No matter what."

Haytham didn't try to bring it up ever again.

But it still left a strange feeling in his chest whenever he had to meet with Master Birch and he didn't know if he was red or blue. However if Haytham had to choose a colour for him, he would say 'rainbow'.

He glowed gold most of the time. He shone white when he was teaching. When Haytham did something right, he would become blue for a couple of seconds before returning gold. But if he asked more specific information about the Assassin philosophy or didn't do well enough, Birch would shine a very angry shade of red and remain so for about half an hour.

It was confusing.

And as for all confusing things he couldn't bring up to anyone, he asked Connor.

The Assassin frowned. "It is… unusual."

Haytham rolled his eyes. "I know that. But what should I do?"

"I have never met someone who changed colours constantly," he admitted, still frowning. "But there must be a way to know what is his true one."

"You have Eagle Sight too. What colour is he to you?" If Connor was bright blue, he could tell if he was someone not to trust, right?

The ghost shook his head. "It does not matter what I see. Someone who shines blue to you may shine red to another." Haytham nearly pouted, his disappointment written all over his face. "But Birch is red to me. He is a Templar, and I am an Assassin."

"Then-"

"Haytham, stop talking to yourself!"

The boy almost tripped at the sudden voice. He was so distracted he didn't even notice Master Birch, Charles and another guard standing in front of him.

"I-I apologize, Master Birch…" At least he finished his morning run, he thought.

The man flickered red. Irritation, disappointment. "You can't just get distracted while you're running – what if this was a mission, and we were to ambush you?"

Haytham bowed his head.

Then the Templar shone blue for an instant. Helpfulness. "You still have much to learn, my boy."

Birch resumed his red glow. Impatience. "Don't let it go to waste."

The younger Kenway shut his eyes, head still bowed. "I won't, Master Birch."

* * *

Emily Maywood was cleaning the little boy's room when she saw it.

No, nothing was moving by itself. Not this time, much to her relief.

But the book on the desk near to the window was… most curious, if she could say so herself. It wasn't on the shelves to the bed's left and that was very strange for the little Kenway. He always struck her as someone who would never have anything out of place.

Even if he was eleven and he had tried to steal the cake she had to bring to some guests Master Birch had invited.

There was also a still-open ink pot, even though the quill was nowhere to be seen. She mechanically closed it and put it in its place and searched for the quill. Her eyes landed more than once on the book.

The woman bit her lip. On the journal cover the letters "HK" were drawn out of ink, as the smudges on its edges proved without touching it. But there was also a "C" and she wondered – if "HK" was Haytham Kenway, who was "C"?

Too curious for her own good, Emily opened the book on a random page. It was pretty recent.

 _13_ _th_ _March, 1736_

 _This afternoon Master Birch taught me how to climb on walls. He said I needed to know how to do it if I was to avenge my family and Connor nodded. But I didn't climb really high before I fell and Master Birch caught me._

 _"_ _It was your first attempt," he said, "just try again, and you'll certainly do better."_

 _But he was red when he said it. I am scared when he does that._

Master Birch was… red?

 _Then Connor started giving me advice on where to put my feet and hands. He was as blue as always and when I did what he was telling me I nearly reached the middle of the wall._

Who was 'Connor' and why should he be blue?

 _Master Birch was blue too. Both he and Connor were happy I did it, but Connor shone brighter. I feel better when I look at him. He is always blue and always helps me, even if Master Birch is unhappy._

 _I think it's good that nobody can see him. Master Birch had told me to watch out for people with hoods, and Connor wears his hood nearly all the time._

Under those disturbing lines – for Emily, at least – there was a childish drawing of a big hooded man with a happy kid holding hands. To the boy's right there were three people, with the titles of "Father", "Mother" and "Sister".

They were all happy, standing in a garden at the bottom of a hill. There was a home completely different from those in London on it, somewhat blurred by what looked like too much ink on the quill.

Emily Maywood put the journal on its shelf and tried to forget about what she had just read.

Poor kid, inventing imaginary friends.

* * *

Gunshots rang in the woods and Haytham froze.

Who was firing? Why were they firing?

He didn't realize he had spoken until Connor answered, "I will go and see," and climbed out of the nearest window, leaving the boy alone in the Templar's office. Birch had gone somewhere else to 'take care of business' and told him he could read what he wanted.

It wasn't the first time it had happened, but every time he would feel… lonely. Stuck in a world of grays and reds with no blue shining. Truly, utterly alone.

Haytham grabbed a book from the shelves on his right – "Age of Piracy" looked just too tempting and _gold_ to leave there – and started reading. It was filled with names, dates, places and letters – there were even drawings and half-drawn maps! The younger Kenway let his imagination wander to those far, warm and sunny places, but it went too far when he didn't feel Connor standing near.

He wondered what he would have done without him, but his thoughts immediately turned dark and he tried to stop the flood of what if's. No use imagining a past that did not exist. He needed to focus on the present and the future.

Which, by Connor's grimace, looked as bleak as it could get.

But his explanation had to come later, since Birch had returned at the same time as the Assassin inside his office. He sat on his armchair with as much calm as he could manage, but it was clear something troubled him.

Haytham didn't even open his mouth that Master Birch started explaining. "The people who killed your father," he ignored the boy's flinch, "are trying to finish their work."

His stormy blue eyes widened. They were _here_?

"I won't let them come anywhere near you, don't worry." He grinned weakly at the younger Kenway. "Their attempts will only lead them to their death."

To his side, Haytham could see Connor glaring at the Templar.

"How many?"

Birch turned a surprised gaze on him. "Pardon?"

"How many of them there are?" Haytham asked, looking darkly at the man. The boy's eyes glowed, but the other didn't seem to notice. "Who are they? Why do they want to _kill_ me?!"

"Calm down, Haytham." He firmly said, flickering red. Irritation. "As for the first two questions, it doesn't matter – they had been already taken care of." He turned white, then gold. He knew something important.

"As for why…" he sighed. "I had hoped to tell you another time."

"I wish to know, Master Birch." Haytham tried not to sound as persistent as he usually was. And probably failed, by the man's sudden glimmer of red.

The Templar seemed to weigh the benefits and the drawbacks of his decision, staring at the boy sitting in front of him. Haytham nearly squirmed, waiting with baited breath and resisting his urge to look at Connor's comforting blue.

"Your father never told you what he did before you were born, didn't he?"

Failing to suppress a wince, Haytham nodded.

"He was a privateer, once. Then he became a pirate and made very powerful enemies in the West Indies." Birch stared at him and the boy bowed his head slightly. The man was still red. Once again irritation.

"Only after years he returned to Britain and docked in London, where he was given a pardon for all his actions and the chance to start a quieter life." The Templar's eyes softened, and he shone blue for a moment. Wistfulness, maybe? "I was assigned as his assistant to help him… settle in. We've been friends ever since."

Then Birch settled on blue. Sympathy. "But his enemies didn't forget him, much less forgive him. You already know the rest."

Silence fell on them and the Templar softly suggested him to rest a bit before meeting in the courtyard to continue their training.

Haytham nodded and asked him if he could bring the book he was reading with him. Once the man accepted, he made his way to his room.

* * *

"You cannot trust him."

The younger Kenway has been trying to find his father's name in the pages of the book when Connor suddenly grabbed his attention. "Why? He became blue."

The Assassin gritted his teeth and the boy winced, looking ready to apologize for something he didn't do.

"It is not your fault," Connor growled and tried very hard to reign in his anger when Haytham recoiled as if struck. "It is not your fault," he repeated in a much softer tone. "I just… I had just seen who he ordered to kill."

The boy instantly straightened. "Who were they?"

"Assassins." Connor ground his teeth once more. "Two Brothers and a Sister. He ordered his men to kill them slowly and… painfully. Not a hint of humanity."

Haytham looked like he couldn't believe his own ears. " _What?_ "

"I stole a smoke bomb and helped them flee. I…" the hooded man clenched his fists tightly, dimly aware of how scared Haytham was sure to be. "It is hard to look at that man, hear him order to kill slowly and then _preach_ about what is good and bad and do _nothing_. I am sickened to know that men like him – who value human lives only by their usefulness, if at all – still exist." He shot a furious glare at the door, probably expecting to see Birch standing there. "But I am not surprised."

Haytham was quiet. He had never heard Connor sound so _angry_. "But then… why was he Father's assistant? They… They were like… friends…?"

"They were always Assassin and Templar," the hooded man stated curtly. "It was most likely a Templar to give him a 'pardon'. He assigned your father a Templar and planned to _betray him!"_

The boy nearly yelped when Connor raised his voice. All he managed was a whimper and the Assassin put all his effort into soothing his rage, which had been building up since Birch had taken Haytham under his wing. It wasn't an easy task.

The man eventually looked at the ever-changing expressions on his 'father's face – fear, thoughtfulness, realization, rejection, then fear again. He was still trying to put together the information given from both sides without considering his feelings.

"No." was all he said at the end, staring intensely at one drawing of a tropical beach.

Connor didn't say anything else, either.


	5. Chapter 4: Ink Proof to Discover

**Chapter 4**

 **Ink Proof to Discover**

* * *

"Where are we going, sir?"

"Bordeaux, a prosperous city because of its port and people bringing funds and business from other parts of France."

Haytham could barely keep his excitement to himself. He was finally leaving the castle for longer than a day!

Even Connor seemed a little happier than usual – probably because he was sick of staying within the castle walls. He did express more than once how he preferred open spaces, trees and nature in general, after all.

"What are we going there for?" the boy asked, grinning. He ignored the glare Nathan – the guard who was holding the reigns of the carriage – sent his way.

"For many reasons, Haytham," Master Birch answered. "To let you see what a busy city is like in contrast of the castle. To check in on a friend of mine who lives here. To see how much your training paid off."

As he said this, the carriage stopped and the two got down on the street.

He soon realized Bordeaux was a very busy city, even in the morning.

There were stalls filled with food – fishes of all kinds, vegetables, fruits and meat – and so many items that Haytham didn't even know the name of on the streets. People of all ages and wealth crowded the place – sailors ran to the nearest taverns, nobles and ladies strolled hand in hand, merchants went into emporiums and shops to buy or sell goods, while many just enjoyed walking and looked at the clear sky.

It was so crowded it was almost scary, but Connor was smiling – more like the corners of his lips were turned upwards, but the sentiment was there – and the younger Kenway found himself grinning as well.

"Haytham." Birch was blue. Affection, most likely. "Pay attention to me – I'll tell you what you have to do."

The boy nodded.

"I need you to find a man in a green coat standing near a ship with red sails," the Templar stated, smirking at the end of the sentence. "It's unlikely you'll miss him. He has blonde hair and you'll probably find him smoking." Then the man handed him a letter sealed with red wax. "Give him this letter and only say it was from me, alright? No idle conversation whatsoever."

"I'll do as you say, Master Birch."

"Then I want you to immediately return here," he pointed the nearest shop, 'David fisherman and sons', "and find Nathan. After that, you may go with him around the city until noon. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Birch smiled again. "Good."

Both parted ways, everyone aware that four guards were still following the boy.

* * *

"It's been so long since I've seen a city so… so _full!_ "

Connor found Haytham's smile contagious, and soon his mood was lifted considerably. "It is refreshing, yes."

"And- Do you smell that?" he tugged the Assassin's left sleeve enthusiastically. It seemed he had forgotten the heavy burden that was to fall on his shoulders. "Someone has _chocolate!_ "

'Who would have known he adored chocolate so much?' he wondered, watching as his 'father's eyes almost sparkled.

"Let's go, Connor!" he said full of joy. He paused only when they reached the door of the chocolate shop, and he slowly dropped his gaze. "Father used to bring me to a place like this too…"

The hooded man knew that feeling. Walking around his village brought back so many memories, even after years _Istà_ died – and Haytham had witnessed Edward's murder two years and a half ago.

He needed a distraction. "You still have that letter to deliver," Connor pointed out, although he loathed doing anything for _Birch_. "And the port is just a few blocks away. Let's go there first."

Haytham nodded and followed the smell of seawater – or was it something else, he wondered – with much less enthusiasm than he had showed before. Remembering his tenth birthday wasn't something he wished to do ever again.

He didn't celebrate that day anymore. It brought back too many bad memories, and Connor respected that. Nonetheless, both he and Birch had left gifts in his room – much better than celebrating or saying "Happy birthday" – a dream catcher and an accurate drawing of an eagle from the Assassin, a journal and some slices of cake from the Templar.

Haytham had the dream catcher hidden in the nearest place to the bed – since it would have been difficult to explain how something as articulate as that made its way into his room – and the eagle drawing in the journal he always kept on him.

But they had also given him knowledge. Birch had started teaching him Italian – for a reason or another – together with math, philosophy, history, swordplay, hand-to-hand combat, climbing buildings, throwing knives and thinking clearly 'in the heat of the fight'.

Connor instead taught him how to handle daggers – "and not gut yourself" he tried to joke, since he had heard it from his past recruits – use the Eagle Sight without getting an headache and climbing trees.

He had also explained that maybe the whole 'people constantly changing colour' problem existed because Haytham didn't swear allegiance to anyone and kept himself at distance from the others. Connor said he didn't have that kind of problem since he had always stayed with his tribe before leaving and becoming an Assassin.

The problem with Connor's side training came up whenever Haytham got injured by falling off a tree, but fortunately Birch shrugged it off as injuries he didn't notice. If it wasn't for the strange glances and whispers he got from the guards and Miss Maywood and the occasional debate on who attacked the Kenway mansion, life would have been normal.

As normal as it could get, anyway.

(Haytham didn't know if it was the Templars, the Assassins or someone else entirely who killed his Father. The Templars killed Assassins, but Birch was a Templar and still took him under his wing. Assassins killed traitorous Assassins, but then they wouldn't have been noticed – at least Connor said so. If it was neither of these secret groups, then why do it?)

Seen from Haytham's prospective, it was sure to be a confusing mess of reasons, emotions and who knew what. Although Connor was pretty sure Birch was the culprit – if only for allegiance to the Templars.

"A smoking man with blonde hair and green coat, standing near a ship with red sails?"

The Assassin turned his head to look at Haytham and nodded. They were standing in front of the port, which was overly crowded and filled with stands, crates, shouts, laughter and furious haggling. Not exactly where the two Kenways liked to mingle.

They went down the cobble street and looked up at the folded sails until they finally found the right ship.

It was smaller than the Aquila, but evidently bigger than a schooner – and the cannons poking through the railings hinted at something more dangerous than the average merchant ship. Connor had no trouble thinking it was a Templar ship, probably designed to hold important cargo. Or stolen after a bloody battle with… Spanish? Most probably Spanish soldiers.

Not like he expected anything else from Templars.

"Whatcha lookin' at, lad?"

Haytham was startled by the voice and turned around to face the man.

"Capt'n ain't hirin' no one," the blonde sailor said, a smoking pipe in his right hand and the left one in a pocket behind his green coat. He also smelled of… rum?

Well, he found his objective without even using the Eagle Sight. "I've got a message," Haytham stated, somehow keeping his voice steady. He handed the letter to the sailor. "From Master Birch."

The man snatched the item from the boy's hands and looked at the seal with more attention than was probably needed before smirking. "Ol' Boss has a plan – oh, wha's this?" he apparently wasn't stupid enough to open the letter in broad daylight – much to Connor's annoyance – and he directed the smirk to Haytham. "First errand, boy?"

The younger Kenway nodded and was about to answer when the Assassin nudged him lightly on his left shoulder. "We should go."

"It is, sir – goodbye." Probably not a good idea to try to flee so quickly, but Birch had said not to stop, Connor didn't want him to stop and so he would _. Not. Stop_.

"Oi, _kid-_ " The unknown sailor tried to grab his arm – and would have, had Connor not shoved him like the invisible ghost-guardian angel he now was.

The man stumbled back onto the crates he was leaning on, prompting someone else on the other side to shout at him and the nearby sailors to laugh. Haytham thanked the Assassin and both quickly fled the scene.

* * *

"You have four guards behind."

"I know." Did Connor think him so clueless?

"We need to lose them."

Haytham turned around to fully face the Assassin, just to check whether it was just him being paranoid or thinking about an escape plan. He was even more serious than usual. "Why should we?"

"Keep walking," Connor said, again nudging his shoulder. Frowning, Haytham wondered what he wanted to do. "You pretend to be lost, get into an alley and then I help you climb over the roof. Then we find out who Birch met and why."

For all that 'plan' could work – some of the man guarding the castle weren't exactly the brightest in terms of intelligence – there was something Haytham still didn't understand. "Why don't you go ahead and I just meet with… Nathan?"

A woman walking by shot him an odd look while Connor glanced behind them.

"No Templar is to know where you are," he said, "because I think what we are going to find… is directly linked to who killed your father."

It was still a sore topic for Haytham, and the Assassin knew that. He looked vaguely apologetic before whispering, "There – just look around for a couple moments before going left."

Connor was bright blue and obviously meant no direct harm to the younger Kenway, so he did as told and found himself in a dark alley.

The place _reeked_ of alcohol and piss and… other substances better not identified, but Connor seemed to ignore the absolutely terrifying smell. He positioned himself at the base of a wall, hidden from the street by a high fence.

"I will help you jump," he said and put his hands in a way to provide a… 'boosting platform' for Haytham. "Three… Two… One…"

The boy ran and hopped on Connor's hands before thinking _wait what should I grab-_

Instincts kicked in and he found himself holding the frame of a window before he knew it. The hooded man joined him not even a second later. "Can you climb to the roof?"

Haytham looked up and quickly estimated that yes, he could. "I can, but I don't think I'm fast enough-"

"Don't worry. People do not look up," he confidently stated before proceeding to the top with the speed of a monkey – or at least Haytham thought so, since he had never seen monkeys in his whole twelve years of life.

Just as he gripped the edge of the rooftop, he heard the confused voices of the guards that were supposed to follow him.

"What-"

"Where did he-"

"How-"

"Birch will have our heads if we don't find that kid! _Spread_!"

The one in charge – he sounded like Braddock but Haytham dearly hoped it wasn't him – barked the order and the three other men sprinted in different directions, searching the nearby bushes, trees, houses and passerby's.

Connor nearly sprinted off as well, then he paused. "Climb on my back. I will carry you."

"W-Why?!"

He shot him an odd frown. "Did you ever do roof-hopping? Do you know how to jump those gaps without hurting yourself or alerting the guards?"

Those were points Haytham could not argue, and Connor knew it very well. He was there at every climbing lesson. The boy flushed and climbed on the Assassin's back, wondering how ridiculous he must look from the outside.

He kept his Eagle Sight activated, if only to do something remotely useful.

However he soon discovered he felt nauseous when Eagle Sight and movement mixed – not a feeling he liked, especially when hanging with only his four limbs on the back of a fast Assassin that was roof-hopping and barely restraining himself from rolling on his back to lessen the impacts with the other roofs.

Keeping his eyes shut didn't help, either. It felt like he was always about to fall – which he was – and the first thing to land would be his face. Or his butt. Painful nonetheless, as past experience had proven.

It was when Haytham was at his limit that Connor finally whispered- "Found him."

He tried to put him down gently, but blue, red and white lights were swirling in Haytham's eyes and the younger Kenway nearly hit his head on the roof. Connor shone a little brighter. Sympathy and a twinge of sorrow.

"Can you open your eyes?" Haytham made a quietly distressed noise. The man took it as a 'no'.

"I know it is disorienting," the boy frowned as if saying _'you could have told me'_ , "and I apologize for not warning you," his frown relaxed ever so slightly, "but…"

"M-Master Birch. R-Right." Haytham slowly opened his eyes and stood up with Connor's help. "Next time just tell me not to use the Sight."

The Assassin nodded and peered over the roof.

Birch was leaving a building with some of his wealthy friends – assuming by the number of guards and fancy clothes they had – but he wasn't the only one glowing gold. Instead there was another man who shone a brighter shade of it.

He had a dark brown coat, a blue tri-corn hat and… a sword? What was so important about him?

The man went into a mostly deserted dark alley and Haytham briefly glanced at the Assassin. Oh no, he _wouldn't-_

Connor dropped onto the man and knocked him out. He looked up and waved his left arm at the boy, as if telling him to come down.

Just to check, Haytham looked at him with the Eagle Sight. He was still bright blue, prompting him to climb down and walk to the dark corner where the knocked-out man lied.

The Assassin was tasting his coat, putting hands in his pockets and tossing aside random items that wouldn't be useful to them. He did keep a coin pouch and some bullets, though. Haytham guessed he should feel vaguely dirty – looting dead-or-alive bodies wasn't right!

(Or was it, in a situation like this?)

"There it is," Connor whispered, holding a sealed letter in his right hand. The wax seal proudly bore the Templar cross, which the man didn't hesitate before breaking.

"Connor, don't you think that…" That what he was doing was wrong? That they weren't supposed to snoop into Birch's letters? That someone could see them? Haytham didn't even know where to begin, and the half sentence hung between them.

The hooded man glanced briefly at him, read the letter and then handed it to the boy without a word.

 _Grandmaster Giuliano Trovatore,_

 _I humbly thank You for the assistance You have provided to my plan. I would not have had enough resources to ship the cargo without Your help. I am confident You will not regret it._

 _The boy's training is proceeding well. He has shown interest in the Order and our ideology, although Kenway's influence rears its head at times. He has also shown excellent ability in holding swords and knives, other than climbing and thinking quickly. He is a fast learner in every field and I am sure it will not be long before he is initiated into the Order._

 _It would be long before he is given contracts, but he has killed during the attack at the Kenway mansion. He only needs time to defeat his fears and to grow into a loyal, strong and clever Templar._

 _As for the woman that was to be my bride, I do not have any use for her. Do as You please. The only condition I have is for her to remain far from France and England, where her brother will remain._

 _May the Father of Understanding guide us,_

 _Grandmaster Reginald Birch_

* * *

Connor looked sympathetically at Haytham. The fragile truce he had had with his father had been broken by a letter, and this was no different.

He didn't know whether he should feel somewhat happy they had discovered it was Birch who ordered the attack, sympathetic for the boy and his fate, furious that Birch dared to do something like this or extremely sorry he had just destroyed Haytham's world.

Or maybe he should make a plan to either escape or kill Birch, because his 'father' looked like he might just do latter.

* * *

 **They are so in for a ride... ;)**


	6. Chapter 5: Young Eagle, The Flying One

**Chapter 5**

 **Young Eagle, The Flying One**

* * *

"Where is that _brat?!"_

Nathan prided himself in being rather brave. But having Edward Braddock furiously shouting at him made his courage flee in an instant, and he cowered.

"Ne'er seen 'im, sir," he nearly squeaked, "Been waitin' for two hours most, sir…!"

"He's not at the port, sir, although the Quartermaster got his letter…"

"Some people saw him walking around," Charles hesitantly reported, "but they don't know where he currently is."

Nathan glanced nervously at his comrades and Braddock. "Where's Tom?"

"I've sent him to alert Master Birch of _your_ fuck-up!" their leader hissed at the cowering guards. Nobody had enough courage to tell him he had lost the boy as well. "Think yourself lucky if he doesn't hang you, because that's exactly what I'd do!"

Charles made a pitiful choking sound.

Just as Master Birch, Tom and four other guards joined the group, too.

"What do you mean _you have lost Haytham?!"_

Everyone but Braddock cringed at the shout. Birch was absolutely _livid_.

His normally composed expression was contorted in rage and he was barely restraining himself from shaking his clenched fists. "Why are you wasting time here?! Spread and find him, for God's-"

"Master Birch!" The very kid they were searching for was trying to shove people out of his way.

Haytham Kenway returned to them, breathless but still very much alive.

"Boy, I told you to return immediately!" Birch scolded him, nearly shouting again. "What were you doing, mmm? Disobeying my orders?"

The younger Kenway winced. "M-Master Birch…"

Said Templar glared at him. "Face me when you're talking to me," he growled and raised Haytham's chin with his right hand. "What-"

The young boy had red puffy eyes and a cut on his left cheek. Only then Birch stared at him and worried that maybe there _was_ a plausible reason he didn't show up on time.

His dark blue clothes had been cut several times on the arms, although only two were deep enough to draw a little blood. His black hair was a mess and the ribbon that tied them was partially loose. Then he noticed the cut on the throat, most likely made by-

An Assassin Hidden Blade.

Shit.

"Who was it, Haytham?"

"I- I don't k-know…" God, he sounded so scared. It would be no good for him to fear the Assassins because of this.

"Then tell me what happened," the Templar growled. Why couldn't anything go to plan?!

The boy flinched, but Birch was beyond caring. "H-He was… near the c-chocolate shop… He had black and b-blue clothes… and he was staring…"

That was already enough information for Birch – the men could track the Assassin down without much else. He turned around.

"Braddock, start your search from there!" He ordered, looking at the fear in the guards' eyes. "I want this man's head before dusk!" The Templar watched as only two mercenaries remained, while the other six followed their leader.

He abruptly turned his head when he felt something prickle his chest.

There was only Haytham, who was staring into space with a strange expression on his face… and sharp little pebbles on his hands. He must have tried to get his attention.

"What did he do to you? What did he _say_ to you?"

Haytham tried to look everywhere but his face. "He h-had a blade on his wrist. I tried t-to kick him, but…"

They remained silent for a couple seconds, and when it was clear the younger Kenway was not going to continue he prompted, "But?"

Something strange appeared on the boy's face. Something he had never seen during the two years and some months he had trained him. An emotion.

Vicious satisfaction.

Birch felt vaguely sick for no apparent reason.

"But I've found who killed Father," was the boy's answer.

Birch stared, bemused. He heard two thuds behind him, as if someone had fallen. Then a scream, followed by many others.

He turned around slowly, so agonizingly slowly he thought the world had suddenly halted. The crowd was further than he remembered. And way more horrified.

It was only when he felt that his cheek lied on cold stone that the Templar knew something was terribly amiss.

* * *

Connor didn't know he still had those poison darts.

But he sure was glad he had them.

He and his 'father' – who had looked sickly satisfied for a moment – had fled from the scene, where two men lied lifeless on the ground and the third was as good as dead. It took a few tries for Haytham to arrange his features in a look of abject horror, but Connor was pretty sure nobody would accuse a twelve-year-old of three murders.

Or four. Coupled with stealing an important letter and, in a few minutes, sneaking into a ship.

Haytham was still fighting a pleased look from his face.

Connor didn't know if _he_ should feel sick, or ashamed of what he had done.

Killing Templars was an Assassin task, not a boy's. No matter who this boy was or would be, no matter if said boy had every right to avenge his family.

Connor suppressed those thoughts, promising to himself he would ponder on them later. Leading his 'father' into a ship directed to the Colonies was clearly much more important at the moment.

More specifically, he needed to find where the _Dawn Star_ was docked.

It was about noon and the crowd was already whispering – _"What happened to that poor boy?" "Seems like someone attacked him!" "Have you heard? Someone's been murdered…" "I heard they used poison…" –_ about the three dead men and Haytham's condition. Other people were running to their homes instead, causing more than a few to run off as well.

They passed three ships, a panicked crowd and several confused sailors before they found the _Dawn Star._

The brig was about the size of the Aquila but evidently not equipped with cannons or mortars. Definitely not going to attack other ships, which suited them just fine. Some sailors were unfolding the sails, shouting at each other something about rigging, knots and holes. Men and women were already taking their luggage on board, yelling goodbyes at those who remained in front of the brig.

A couple of sailors were bringing crates onto the ship, and Connor had an idea to get in without raising suspicion. He looked at Haytham.

" _Really?_ " the boy raised an eyebrow.

"Yes."

"Why can't I just say 'someone attacked me please help'?" He was still sour about having to get (lightly) injured, cry and run like a distressed toddler to the Templar, Connor could tell. "We don't even know what's inside those crates! What if there are knives?"

The Assassin almost rolled his eyes. Almost. "Weapons are kept in boxes smaller than those you can hide in. At most, you will smell like cabbage."

Haytham's nose twitched. "I don't like cabbage."

"Just get inside that crate," Connor pointed a crate which smelled of carrots. Luckily, their smell would mask the blood's. His 'father' didn't seem about to obey. "I will throw you in if you don't."

The boy made a face, but hurried to the crate nonetheless.

* * *

As predicted, Haytham smelled like carrots.

The scent of blood seemed so far now. Lulled by the rocking of the ship, he could almost sleep like that. His tired limbs screamed at him to just close his eyes and rest, even if he'll wake up aching all over.

But every time he closed his eyes, the memories of yesterday would flash under his eyelids.

Birch's letter.

Connor's skeptical look when he heard him craving for revenge.

Nathan's dead body as Connor stuck him and his companion down.

Birch's look of horror when he finally realized he was dying.

The scared people, whispering, shouting, running away from the 'murderer'.

Because he was a murderer, wasn't he? He had killed for his Mother two years ago and killed again just the day before.

And Haytham had been satisfied as Birch's eyes were slowly becoming glassy and dead. He had gotten his revenge thanks to Connor.

But he had been reluctant to help him. He had asked what he wanted to do if Birch died, because "revenge is the brightest of fires, one that leaves nothing but ashes and smoke where it once burned."

Haytham's mind was clouded with thoughts of blood and death, but he knew what he would do after avenging his Father. Jenny was in the hands of another Templar – Giuliano Trovatore, most likely in Italy – and he had to save her. She was his half-sister…

Connor's eyes softened at that, then sadness and regret overtook them – _he saw something Haytham couldn't, memories of far places and times unknown_ – and he agreed to help… if the younger Kenway told him where he would go after the assassination.

And so he had wondered – the Templars weren't a choice. They were evil and cruel. Connor and Father were Assassins, so it would be good to join the Brotherhood. But which one?

Sure, they often kept in touch to gather information about Templar activity, but where should Haytham go? The British Brotherhood tried to rescue him (and failed twice), the French one didn't lift a finger… maybe he could go to the Italian Brotherhood to both train and discover where Jenny was…

But the Templars would find him very soon, if word of his presence reached their ears. He needed a place so far it would take the Order a lot of time to understand he had 'escaped'…

The Colonies, of course. Connor had become a brighter blue at Haytham's choice, so it surely was a good idea. Or maybe he just missed the 'Homestead', his tribe, his land, his _home_.

Home…

Haytham didn't have one.

Maybe it would be good to pretend he was going home. Father's house at Queen Anne's Square had been burned down, the castle was definitely _not_ home… but Connor had called that little city 'Homestead'. He clearly liked that place…

That was when his miserable thoughts screeched to an halt. _Where_ was Connor?

He had closed the lid of the crate, but then?

…He wouldn't abandon him now, would he?

The sound of footsteps startled him and Haytham focused on keeping his breathing even. It would do no good to be discovered now, no matter how much those thoughts claimed his attention.

"What have we here?" a voice asked. It sounded vaguely French, or at least Haytham thought.

"Normal stuff," another voice, much deeper than the other, answered. One of them sneezed. "You know – planks, nails, hammers, coal…" Each word was followed by a _thump_ , probably on the corresponding crates. "A farmer even got a place for wheat, some kind of medical herb, beans, carrots…"

As the man hit the carrot crate, Haytham winced. His poor eardrums…

There was a pause outside. Then another hit.

"Uh… Pietro? What are you doing?"

Another hit threatened to make him deaf. "It's…"

"Pretend to be unconscious!" Connor whispered (has he been there all along?) – he sounded so alarmed Haytham obeyed immediately. He wondered if his heartbeat would give him away.

Someone lifted the lid of the carrot crate and gasped. "Pietro! A child!"

"I know." 'Pietro' ground out. One of them poked an 'injury' on his arm. "But who brought him here?"

"Who cares?!" the other man hissed. "He's a _child_! We need to bring him to Federico!" He hastily picked him up – Haytham almost lashed out at the man – and he ran off somewhere, with his companion at his heels.

It took all of his will not to puke.

"What is it now… Dio mio!" A definitely Italian man exclaimed, shocked. "Put him there!" Haytham felt himself be put on a… cot, most likely.

"Where did you find him? Who dared to do this to a child? Did you see anyone?!"

"He was in a carrot crate when we found him like- like this," Haytham could easily imagine the man making weird gestures with his hands as he explained. "Nobody was there – someone must have put him there before we left Bordeaux!"

"Is he going to die, sir?"

The doctor – at least he hoped he was – prodded his 'injuries', turned him around, looked at the cut on throat – Connor had almost refused doing it, saying that he could very easily cut the artery if Haytham wasn't still enough – and eventually sighed in relief. "These cuts are shallow. He's fine as long as they don't get infected."

Both men mumbled something, relieved.

Once the doctor put a blanket over him and left, Haytham watched Connor's blue form until it lulled him to sleep.

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _"_ _Satisfied, now?"_

 _Haytham winced at the sharp voice._

 _"_ _How sweet is the taste of revenge, mmm?" the voice sounded feminine and accusatory. " Is it like honey? Maybe sugar? Or cake? Answer me, Haytham."_

 _The voice was so cruel… "I- I…"_

 _"_ _You killed once." Scorching fire roared to life around him and two icy blue eyes pierced his soul, making him gasp. A corpse lied at his feet, and he quickly backed away._

 _No, no, no… he just wanted to protect Mother…_

 _"_ _And you did again and again…"_

 _Other corpses fell from the dark sky – Nathan, Miss Maywood, Charles, Birch, Jenny, Father, Connor…!_

 _"_ _Stop! Stop!" He didn't kill them! Connor wasn't dead, was he-_

 _"_ _Your actions affect more people than you can imagine… but now…" A monster, wearing his Mother's face, grabbed his arms._

 _"_ _WAKE UP."_

 _._

 _._

 _._

"Oi, kid! Calm down!"

Haytham thrashed around on the cot, punching and kicking whatever came near – unconsciously calling on some of his training, if Federico's bruised cheek was anything to go by. At least, Connor noted with hesitant relief, he wasn't screaming.

Haytham gasped as his eyes snapped open. He was trembling.

"Hey, ragazzo, hey…" the doctor grabbed his 'father's shoulders – an attempt to reassure him, but only those who understood could do it – and looked sympathetically at him. "You're safe now. No one will harm you."

The younger Kenway didn't look about to believe the man. He tried to shove him away – his arms shook too much to accomplish such a feat – and glanced pitifully at Connor.

That look was too heart-wrenching for the Assassin to bear, and he found himself crouching near Haytham before he thought about how close he was to the doctor. He could very easily be discovered… but his 'father' needed someone who understood, and he was the only one around.

Federico glanced to a point next to Connor. "Boy, can you see me?"

Haytham focused on the doctor and twitched at the closeness. "I-I can, sir…"

"Bene, bene – do you feel… rested?"

He nodded, but Connor could see how fiercely he tried to suppress his fear.

The doctor looked doubtful but didn't pursue the matter further. He sighed. "Alright, boy… now, I'll ask you some questions, alright? If you don't want to answer, it's alright – but the captain's been restless since Pietro told him about your presence."

Haytham nodded and glanced at Connor, who shrugged. He would tell him later.

Federico cleared his throat. "What's your name?"

"…Haytham Kenway." Connor didn't object. There were hardly any Templars in the Colonies up north, or at least that was what Achilles had told him once.

"Do you know where you are?"

He looked around, probably just for show. "It's a ship."

The doctor looked much more sympathetic. "Ah, yes… this is the _Dawn Star_ , en route to Boston…" Haytham pretended to be shocked, and the man fumbled for words. "But you see, no one has a clue as to the reason you're here…"

The younger Kenway stared at his hands like they were the most interesting thing in the world. "I don't either…"

"Uh, Haytham… I… I'm Federico Tartaglia, doctor…" he awkwardly added, suddenly realizing he didn't introduce himself. "I need to ask you… do you know how you got those cuts?"

Haytham didn't look like he wanted to answer. He shook his head, hugged his knees – again, Connor suspected it was just for show – and avoided all eye contact with the doctor. That seemed to do the trick, since Federico looked even more stricken.

"Ah… It's alright, I can understand you don't want to talk about that…" He cleared his throat. "Do you wish to speak about something else, maybe?"

Haytham shook his head and the doctor left him in the cot after a brief hesitation.

* * *

 ***Loading Creative Plot-Twisting***

 ***Loading Complete***


	7. Chapter 6: Improvising and Seafaring

**Chapter 6**

 **Improvising and Seafaring**

* * *

The captain barged into the sickbay right after supper, startling Federico and a couple of seasick men.

His long coat was a dark shade of red – the colour of blood-stained earth, Connor dimly thought – and the silver threads weaved into it seemed to shine as much as the spotless buttons did. He wore a cobalt undershirt and a decorated leather belt, which had the sheathe for a flintlock pistol. The Assassin doubted anyone but the more experienced noticed the second gun tucked into the coat, or the way the captain favoured his left leg.

His curly hair was the same colour as tree bark, tied back into a tight ponytail. His tri-horn hat was a dark shade of scarlet with the same silver decorations as his coat. His eyes were a dull brown, but their sharp look was that of an observant man.

He strode right next to Haytham's cot, where the boy was raising an eyebrow at his fresh bandages under the worried gaze of the doctor.

"Ah, Captain Reinhold!" Federico smiled nervously. "Are you here for-"

"Of course I am," he snapped, ignoring the doctor's wince. "Because someone thought I didn't need to know about this new _passenger_ until an hour ago, busy as I was making sure _my_ ship didn't run into others!"

He glared at Haytham like he was just a pebble in his boot to shake off. Connor wasn't sure if the man was angry because there was someone else on the ship or because they kept him unaware for so long. He did know that directing that anger at Haytham was wrong, though.

His 'father' met the captain's expression distrustfully as Federico mumbled something about tending to another patient and left for another corner of the sickbay.

"So, boy." Captain Reinhold crossed his arms over his chest. "Tell me who you are, what you're doing here and why. From the beginning."

The younger straightened. "I'm Haytham Kenway, sir. I was attacked in Bordeaux for a reason I don't know. I- I just woke up here. I don't know what to do… I haven't got anywhere nor anyone to go to…" Connor had to applaud his ability to fake hopelessness and barely restrained despair. His tone and his body language were enough to fool most people.

Reinhold didn't soften his gaze nor his stance, though. "Who attacked you?"

"I don't k-know."

"Surely you must have a clue. Was he an enemy of your father's?"

Haytham winced, but the captain pretended not to notice. "I… I'm not sure. I've never seen him…"

"And the men who were killed before we left?"

The younger Kenway visibly flinched and the man narrowed his eyes. "Well?" he prompted, leaning forward. "You know something about them, don't you?"

"I…I…" Haytham was clearly struggling with all the feelings that had risen when he killed Birch. He may not regret taking his life in particular, but its weight was still too much for a kid.

Captain Reinhold was unrelenting. "What do you know about them?" he hissed, his right hand gripping Haytham's shoulder as he forced him to look in his eyes.

Connor barely refrained from grabbing the man and throwing him overboard. If he intervened now in any way, the captain might just do the same with Haytham…

"I'm sure your _Father_ would've been willing to _understand_ and _guide you_ on the right path, if he was alive," Reinhold whispered, his mouth mere inches away from Haytham's right ear. That was when he and Connor understood. The man wasn't just stressed and angry.

He was a Templar.

"I don't know what happened to Master Birch!" Haytham shouted, his voice shrill and frightened.

(Connor had to, once again, applaud his ability to fake and mask emotions in situations such as this.)

"He- That _Assassin_ told me he would have killed him!" At this point the doctor was gawking, frozen in place with a roll of bandages in hand. The patients were thankfully asleep. "So I- I had tried to warn them, but- but-"

Haytham didn't try to stop the tears this time – they had been building up for hours and holding them back now would have been both a hassle and a mistake. Reinhold was most likely to believe him if those tears of grief were true. He would just assume the (wrong) reason, and that was enough.

The captain looked startled at the crying child in front of him – like he realized just then that he was a kid, not a man to interrogate – and he leaned away from him. Something resembling sorrow and surprise showed on his features. "I… didn't realize…"

He sighed, his stance finally relaxing slightly. "I thought you were lying about your identity. Master Birch had spoken of you yesterday – praised you, even – and I… didn't expect you to be here. I thought you were still somewhere in Bordeaux. I just… can't believe he died like that."

Reinhold shot a strangely sorrowful look at Haytham. It was so unlike his previous behaviour Connor barely believed it. "I didn't even catch wind of it until the passengers started talking about a murderer in the city. I should have known the Assassins would do something like this…"

Haytham glanced at the Assassin right next to the captain. "Why would they have done that?"

The man scowled. "Probably to delay my ship, or to send a warning sign to the Templars." The younger Kenway frowned, a question on the tip of his tongue that the captain immediately cut off. "Just because I'm not an official member of the Order doesn't mean I don't have my own duties – and that means I can't change course just to drop you off. You'll come with me to Boston."

Haytham tried not to show his relief. One less thing to worry about. "…Alright."

"Captain Reinhold, a storm is coming this way!" a lean man made his way into the sickbay, earning the attention of everyone awake.

He wore a heavy dark-blue coat and his blonde short hair were exposed, since his hat was probably discarded or lost. The man was clearly not frightened of the approaching storm.

The captain jumped to his feet and left the room muttering a curse under his breath. The other man (the second-in-command?, Connor wondered) followed immediately after, barely sparing a glance at Haytham.

* * *

Shortly after, only the sound of barked orders and heavy rain were heard above deck.

The rolling of the ship made some passengers sick – Haytham counted three women and two men, added to the two already inside – and the air in the sickbay reeked of vomit. It even happened that a bucket full of someone's last meal fell on a sleeping patient.

It wasn't pretty when he woke up, screaming obscenities and wiping furiously at the vomit on his face – only to get sick again and throwing up in the same bucket. It wasn't long before he demanded to get a clean bed, which of course he took from Haytham.

"I'm not getting into _yours_ ," the younger Kenway stated. The man – whose clothes were much too similar to a mercenary's – was slowly turning a strange shade of red and green, so he added- "…sir."

" _You_ aren't sick!" the man was quick to claim the bed as he said so, trying to shove Haytham away with a dirty hand. He side-stepped the swipe easily and found himself backing off when the man grabbed another bucket half-filled with vomit.

Federico handed a few vials full of some strange greenish mixture – probably to help with seasickness, somehow – and narrowed his eyes at the unknown man. "If you're claiming this bed, the boy can surely claim yours," he commented.

The man glanced at the doctor, the supposed medicine and the boy. He scowled. "Only if he doesn't touch my things."

That settled, Haytham quietly thanked Federico and got the directions to the man's room.

However, reaching said room was a struggle all of its own. The ship lurched and moved to the storm's whims, rolling sideways and causing more than a few things – imprudently left free – to fall. Haytham nearly tripped face-first on a broken inkpot and Connor had to keep him upright twice.

Shouts could be heard from outside, muffled but understandable – _"I said half-sail! Fold them!" "Rogue wave at starboard!" "BRACE!" –_ until waves crashed into the ship, that was. After much swaying and dodging objects, both Kenways reached the room.

The only item left on the improvised desk – more like a crate forgotten there, really – was a half-eaten portion of something resembling bread. The rest was probably kept into the two boxes tied next to the bed, which was to Haytham's left. There was only a lamp to his right and a glance was enough to tell taking it would be hard.

Haytham checked the room with his Sight. Everything was a dull grey and he breathed in relief, already crawling into the empty bed. He didn't do anything, and yet he felt so tired…

He felt he could almost forget what he had done the day before…

 _…_ _when the course of his life changed so quickly, she could hardly force Time to remain the same…_

Haytham shook his head. He didn't like thinking about killing Birch. That first rush of satisfaction was something he wouldn't forget to easily, but then he had thought 'what does that make of me, if I take pleasure in taking a life?'

 _A monster, an abomination born of a twisted Timeline never supposed to exist-_

He shuddered.

"Is something wrong?" Connor asked, sitting right under the lantern. He had no shadow _because he wasn't supposed to be there. Unusually perceptive for a misplaced soul._

"I…" he would gain nothing by lying to him. "I… don't think I should have killed him… like that…"

Haytham wasn't even sure how to put that weight in his chest into words, but Connor looked like he understood all the same.

"Wishing death upon someone is very different from taking their life yourself," he said as his hood rested on his shoulders, "but sometimes it's… necessary."

"One of my reasons to join the Brotherhood was revenge, I admit. I… have already told you my mother died because our home was burned down." Haytham winced at how similar it was to his own experience. "At the time, I believed it was the Templars' fault. I believed their Grandmaster gave the order to burn my village, but…"

Connor's expression was more closed off than usual. Although it was nearly blank, Haytham could see something akin to dread in his dark eyes. He remained silent as he waited for _the misplaced soul to amuse her, telling a future that might not happen if he was to interfere again._

"When I met him," the Assassin carefully continued, "we did not kill each other. Not immediately, at least. We had agreed to a truce to hunt down a Templar turned traitor."

Haytham struggled not to fall off the bed when a rogue wave hit the ship again. Connor seemed deep in thought again.

"That was when he told me he had never ordered that attack. I did not believe him, but when he proved his words to be true…" he hesitated, then shook his head. "I deeply regret taking his life. This is a burden that will weigh on me for as long as I live." His eyes were staring at the desk, unmoving.

Haytham wondered who this Templar was to weigh so much on Connor.

"But it was not _him_ who deserved to die." Connor returned the firm Assassin he knew, looking at him again. "He may have been a Templar, but that did not make him any less human."

"So… there was no other option?"

"If he was more inclined to a long-lasting peace, maybe. But the way our truce ended…" He shook his head. "No, there was no other option. But… I think I am more to blame than him."

Now that was news. Connor was tempted to kill a Templar only if they did something against Haytham or other Assassins: there was no reason he would refuse peace. "Why?"

The ship lurched and creaked as the hooded man remained silent. The question hung uncomfortably between them, and the increasing silence made Haytham think of bloody scenarios. People slain for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, their screams, the smell of _scorched flesh_ -

"I acted rashly. We could have gone together to... deal with the one who burned my home, had I known he cared for my village." Connor turned his head away, and only then Haytham realised how hard it must have been for him to tell so much. "Things would have been to different, had I known him like I should have…"

"So Birch didn't need to die?" That was _really_ hard to believe for the younger Kenway.

Connor didn't hesitate before answering- " _He_ did. That letter was proof of his involvement in the attack – it was him who killed your father and kidnapped your sister. He planned to deceive you and make you a Templar. But I was already an Assassin when I met the other Grandmaster. The… relationship… between us was different."

"Different how?" He knew he touched a delicate topic by Connor's pinched expression. "If… If you don't want to tell me… it's alright…"

He sighed as Haytham's voice became more hesitant. "You already have your burdens – you do not need to carry mine as well."

That said, Connor stayed silent for the rest of the night as shouts and thunders echoed around them. Haytham promised himself not to bring it up again if Connor didn't want to, and fell asleep.

.

.

.

 _Haytham could feel a presence, but he couldn't turn around fast enough to see it._

 _He was in a strange building. Maybe it wasn't even a building, but the walls were too smooth to be a normal cave. It looked like they shone, thin streams of light in the dark._

 _"_ _So much is at stake now…"_

 _The boy turned around but he couldn't see anyone. This feminine voice sounded familiar._

 _"_ _My future and freedom_

 _Rest on the shoulders of many mortals_

 _Spanning through millennia,_

 _And it only took a misplaced soul_

 _To tear my plan to shreds?!"_

 _Haytham winced. Who was this woman…?_

 _She laughed – a cruel, bitter sound echoing in the building-cave._

 _"_ _No matter._

 _Soon, order will be restored._

 _Because as there cannot be two suns to warm the same earth,_

 _So there cannot be two of the same soul to shift the tides of Time…"_

 _._

 _._

 _._

Haytham's eyes shot open.

He nearly tumbled off the bed when he registered Federico's presence beside him instead of Connor's. The doctor made a sound of protest and caught him before he fell.

"Haytham, are you alright?!"

His fingers twitched. "I was just… startled."

Federico looked at him, pitying. "I came here to check and change your bandages, tell you we're out of the storm and breakfast will be soon served," he said as he took off a bandage on his arm.

Haytham nodded and started to take off the other (unnecessary) gauzes. He nearly pouted at the sorry state of his dark blue clothes, torn and somewhat dirty. They probably still smelled of carrots.

The doctor hummed contentedly. "You're lucky these cuts were shallow. You don't need stitches – only time to let your skin heal." He noticed the look on Haytham's face. "Oh, right… clothes. Mister Holden said he had some clothes his little nephew - Jim, I think – had left here. I don't even know why he kept them, but I thought they might fit you."

The younger Kenway nodded again. "Thank you."

Federico smiled. "You're welcome."

The man put the clothes he had brought – a brown coat with white undershirt and breeches – on the desk and left the room to let him dress.

* * *

 **Is this considered creative? I dunno... I have just this plot in mind... :3**


	8. Chapter 7: Language, Letters and Legends

**Chapter 7**

 **Language, Letters and Legends**

* * *

Being stuck on a ship didn't mean Haytham couldn't train.

Sure, the other passengers whispered to themselves – _"Who is that boy?" "What is he doing?" "Just why is he climbing up the rigging…?" –_ about his climbing practise, staring and occasionally nodding at walls. In his defence, he was only listening to Connor talking about the Homestead - it would have been considered a proof of his sanity, or lack thereof.

Some of the crew even cheered for him when he was allowed to climb up the rigging – their excited shouts and the feeling of the wind on his face were lifting considerably his morale. Connor always watched from the deck, probably because his weight would be noticed on the ropes, but he was no less supportive.

He eventually had to move into a tiny room near the kitchens, but he wasn't complaining – the bed wasn't the best, but it could be a lot worse. Haytham asked Connor how he could sleep on the hard wood and he just shrugged, telling him that "Sleeping on trees is much more uncomfortable than this."

They tried to practise swordplay with wooden sticks, but they couldn't find the right time. During the day many passengers wandered around the ship along with the sailors; during the night, a few sailors 'patrolled' the _Dawn Star_ and the sound of wood hitting wood was just too loud to be dismissed.

Haytham got away with the excuse 'I want to be ready if they come after me again' once, but when the Captain told him to stop he had to obey.

Andrew Reinhold wasn't a bad person, not really. He did shine _Templar_ red – as Connor had called that particular shade – but he glowed blue when he was happy and he talked to him.

The second-in-command instead, Henry Holden, always shone a pale blue.

Connor had sneaked into his room – not all that hard when invisible – and saw another passenger rummaging through Henry's correspondence. There were a few letters addressed to Reinhold as well, which the unknown man read more carefully than the others. He was shining _Assassin_ blue, even if he didn't have the robes of one.

When Connor relayed that news to Haytham, he frowned.

"They can infiltrate a ship to steal documents undetected, but can't find _me_?" he muttered sourly. "Is it really so hard? It's not like there aren't enough letters about me around…"

"When the person you are searching for is not well known, it may be difficult," Connor answered. "As Assassins, we cannot ask every passer-by if they have seen someone or put 'wanted' posters around. Birch had locked you in the castle long enough to make them think you were lost, and they retreated."

Haytham tried to scowl, but it looked more like a pout. "They should have been more alert."

Connor shrugged and turned his gaze away. "Each Brotherhood usually doesn't interact with the others. They do that only when there is something that concerns the Brotherhoods of more countries – such as common targets or large Templar forces carrying out a purge."

Haytham stared.

"Not that I have seen that happen. The former is much more likely than the other."

The younger Kenway was tempted to ask more, but refrained. There was something in Connor's tone – sour, or angry? – that made him keep his mouth shut. He looked out of the nearest window in his tiny room.

A shining half-moon stared back, casting white light on the water below. The waves gently parted as the wind blew into the sails of the _Dawn Star_. As far as he could see, there weren't many clouds and the stars shone brightly.

It was relaxing. But who knew what kind of devious plans were plotted in the shadows…

"You were learning French and Italian, right?"

He turned to face Connor with a raised eyebrow. "Yes, and you already know that. Why?"

A beat of silence. "My… tribe, the Kanien'keha:ka," Haytham frowned at the name, "speak another language. I think it is right for you to learn it, since they live near the Colonies. It would be... beneficial for you to translate without my constant help."

"Why _now_?" Connor tilted his head. "Not that I don't think it's useful to know – but _now_?"

"During the day, everyone is awake and can hear you. Climbing the rigging can be dismissed as desire for adventure or physical exercise - speaking my language is sure to get too much attention."

He couldn't fault that point. "You're right…"

Connor looked at him. "If you wish to rest, we can begin another time."

"It's alright," said Haytham, "It's not like I'd sleep much anyway…"

The hooded man stared, but didn't say anything of what he was thinking. Instead he nodded and took a quill, an inkpot and the battered, nearly-finished journal – which had still the eagle drawing of a year ago – and put them on the floor.

" _Hen_ means 'yes'."

That was easy, even though he thought of chickens. " _Hen_."

" _Ià_ means 'no'."

Wasn't 'ya' yes in German? " _Ià._ "

Connor pointed the moon in the sky. " _Ehnita."_

Haytham repeated what he said until the words and sentences were just too difficult to pronounce. But there were two particular words he wanted to know – _Otkon. Atonhnhetshera_.

Spirit.

The Assassin had sketched a woman wearing a strange white dress – it looked like a toga, as if she was some kind of Latin deity. When the younger had asked who she was, Connor answered he didn't know her identity. He only knew she had given him a mission that brought nothing but grief to him.

Haytham could tell he was fuming under his nearly blank expression, and once again decided not to pursue the matter further.

* * *

Connor wondered how long it would take for Haytham to find out his secrets.

It wasn't like he had only one or two little white lies: the 'skeletons in his closet' were darker than pitch black, and he had kept them hidden for two years and a half. The Templar Grandmaster he had slain – in a future long past, or in a past far in the future? – was his own father, and his father was Haytham Edward Kenway.

He didn't even knew Connor came all the way from the future, wishing things had been different as he stared at the Amulet he had taken after so much bloodshed. That same bloodshed the Spirit sent him to do…

 _"_ _After so many millennia,_

 _How does another human dare_

 _to activate_

 _the Soul Snare?"_

She was enraged as she said so, staring down at him like she wanted nothing more than to rip him to pieces. He never felt so small and insignificant before then.

She smirked, but her lips were tight in immense displeasure.

 _"_ _Wishing things were different_

 _Is nothing but a pathetic attempt_

 _To deny your Fate,_

 _MORTAL."_

Connor didn't know where he was, or who she was. But he knew he had to get away from her – and _fast_. The sheer brightness of the strange place-limbo-something was nearly blinding him and he ran where his feet – and his instinct – carried him.

He could hear the Spirit's bitter laugh.

 _"_ _Go on, then._

 _Try to change what must be._

 _I DARE YOU."_

That was when he had woken up, about sixty years in the past and in front of another Assassin. The man didn't even raise an eyebrow when Connor asked the date and place, instead whispering to himself how lucky he was to speak with an invisible spirit thanks to a glowing prism.

(Connor almost punched him, just to warn him that spirits aren't always – if ever – good.)

Haytham mumbled something as he huddled further into the blankets, halting Connor's trip down Memory Lane.

It was wrong to keep so much hidden from him. Edward had never told him of the Assassins, Birch wanted to manipulate him – something that clearly happened in Connor's own time, but was avoided because of his interference – and Haytham was trusting him with everything.

His life, his future – Connor had earned his complete trust. But how much of it did he truly deserve?

He was doing all of this for a greater good, right? Changing their tragic finale would bring Assassins and Templars closer to peace, and maybe he would stop feeling his father's blood on his hands…

He shook his head. Sulking over his past – future? – mistakes wasn't going to correct them.

Connor wandered soundlessly through the empty hallways – if they could be called that – of the ship. He checked the food in the kitchen but didn't take any of the rations, knowing he didn't need to eat. It didn't feel necessary, though a snack every now and then made him feel better.

It reminded him of a less complicated life, when he was still flash and bones and he could speak to more people than just his twelve-year-old father.

The Assassin avoided a yawning sailor as the latter left the upper deck. He took the opportunity to wander near the captain's quarters, blissfully unconcerned about being noticed.

That was when he noticed a dim light in Holden's quarters. Curious, Connor neared the room and peeked inside.

Nautical maps and letters were scattered everywhere over a large desk – there were even a couple books and journals lying around. Only a few candles were lit nearby, giving the room a strange aura of mystery and foreboding. There were two men hunched over the desk, whispering and – Connor thought, as he heard them hiss – arguing.

" _This_ is your proof, Henry," the unknown man said. " _He_ knows. And if you think he'll keep his mouth shut about _this_ , you're horribly mistaken."

Henry Holden bristled, his eyes narrowing. "Who do you think will believe him? All he has are legends, and legends they'll remain."

The other man scoffed, the pale scar on his nose more noticeable. "Then what is this?" He hissed as he took a journal into his hands. "' _Light and warm like a little sun, smooth at the touch', 'exactly what Master Birch was looking for, he encouraged us to keep searching' –_ want to know more?"

He picked up a letter, sneering at it. " _'The Temple is just out of our reach. Every rumour and legend are a clue; search for them and report to me.'_ Signed _'Grandmaster Birch'._ "

Holden seemed at loss for a moment, but he wasn't so easily deterred. "Now that Birch is dead, we can direct his information to the Assassins! Killing him now is detrimental, and it would upset the Templars of both France and England! We need to keep a low profile to get Kenway's journal back!"

The unknown man smirked. "Arianna's the only one who can decipher it, and you can be sure the Templars won't get their hands on her – and without her, the journal is useless. We have all the time we want."

The second-in-command scowled. It was strange for Connor to see two Assassins – because how could they be anything else? – argue so much over a target. A target that he could easily identify as Captain Reinhold.

He examined the scattered letters on the desk, careful to maintain a fair distance between him and the two men. Some of them had written rumours about strange visions – Connor was startled to recognize some similar to the Eagle Sight – and odd jewellery in the darkest corners of a few black markets. One of them seemed way too similar to the Amulet – or 'Soul Snare', as the evil spirit called it.

Other letters were about ancient myths: Greek deities such as Zeus, Era, Athena and Aphrodite, sometimes with their Latin names of Jupiter, Juno, Minerva and Venus. Tales of demi-gods and their epic quests, mysterious items of incredible power… There were even some parts of the Bible here and there, mostly about some miracles.

Either Andrew Reinhold lied about his position in the Templar Order, or these were the important documents he had to deliver.

Holden and the other Assassin had finished arguing when Connor stepped away from the table. The unknown man walked away like he had won. Henry grumbled under his breath as he rearranged the documents and snuffled the candles before heading out and leaving the invisible Assassin alone.

Connor stared at the letters.

They shone a blinding shade of gold.

…Surely, everyone would be better off without this mad chase for the pieces of Eden…

* * *

Haytham was surprised to see Henry so upset.

Captain Reinhold had just left some minutes ago to rest – hours of night sailing could do that to everyone – and about ten passengers were stretching their legs on the upper deck, chatting among themselves or staring out at the open sea.

The sailors were singing a shanty – Connor said it sounded like "Leave her Johnny" – and were climbing up and down the rigging. Some of them remained on the crow's nest, probably acting as lookout.

There was just no reason why Henry would be so angry.

He almost decided to near him and ask, but thought better of it. Distracting someone steering the wheel was a plain bad idea – one he had no desire to experience.

Connor had told him that once he had a passenger on board that just wouldn't stop complaining – if he didn't find enough ways to voice his mistrust in Connor's nautical experience and ability, he would grumble about the hot Caribbean weather and the distance between them and their target.

Connor found Haytham's laughter extremely amusing, but wouldn't tell him why.

That was when an unknown man with a pale scar on his nose approached him.

"Splendid weather, isn't it?" the corners of his mouth were turned upwards, but the sentiment didn't quite reach his green eyes.

Haytham checked the man with his Eagle Sight – he was a strange mixture of gold and white. "…Yes."

"My uncle often took me on his trips – he was a merchant, you see. We visited Venice, Rome, Cyprus; we even sailed to Athens." A wistful look appeared on his face. "Such beautiful statues! Uncle Louis nearly broke the hull, trying to take two of 'em. Took forever to move Artemis to the other side of the ship – a wonder it didn't run aground, I tell you!" He burst into laughter at that, reaching to pat Haytham on the shoulder and finding only empty air.

The man waited for the younger Kenway to say something. When it was abundantly clear Haytham wasn't going to speak up, he did.

"Jamie Blaire," he said, offering his right hand, "but many just call me 'Ermes', god of trade!"

A corner of Haytham's mouth turned upwards. "Ermes is also the god of thieves and deceit, sir."

Jamie spluttered indignantly for a second before recovering with a sardonic smile. "Ah ah ah – very clever, little boy. You got me: nobody calls me Ermes."

The man's dark green coat fluttered in the wind, exposing a glinting… _something_ on his leather belt. Connor tensed beside him.

"I've never met lone boys who know about Greek mythology." His smile didn't seem entirely harmless anymore. "Surely I'd know if… Mister _Birch_ , was he?" Haytham flinched. "I'd know if he made you learn that. Wrapped in his own wild goose chase for shiny little trinkets, he'd have sold his soul to uncover their secrets…"

Haytham didn't want this Jamie Blaire – if that was even his real name – around anymore. Connor agreed whole-heartedly, annoyed he couldn't just pitch him overboard.

Somewhat concerned, the twelve-year-old Kenway took several steps back and left with a mumbled "Goodbye, _sir_ " on his lips. The more distance between them, the better for the health of both.

(Mainly Jamie's. Haytham wasn't sure of what Connor would do him if the man kept talking.)

Jamie made a strange sound of protest that sounded like a growl, reaching with his left hand to grab his shoulder. There was something glinting under his white bracer – could it be…? – but Connor shoved him away before he could do anything else.

Haytham had already asked a sailor if he could climb up the rigging when Jamie finished processing what just happened. By the time he strode over his position, the boy was a good ten meters over the deck.

It wasn't long before he reached the top of the mast closer to the helm. Connor climbed over and, after a few scathing comments on how some people should keep their mouths shut, he continued teaching him his native tongue.

* * *

 ***Me trying desperately to slay the Plot Twisting Monster and failing horribly***


	9. Chapter 8: Land-Ho!

**I am so terribly sorry it took me so many months to get back to this.**

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

 **Land-Ho!**

* * *

Barely three days had passed when the passengers discovered something terrible.

Captain Reinhold had vanished into thin air – or better yet, into the ocean – by the hands of a murderer. There was no other explanation for the crew: Andrew just wasn't the type of man to slip overboard because of a careless incident.

Fingers were pointed, venomous accusations were whispered and men eyed suspiciously the others on board. It took the better part of a day to calm down passengers and crew, and Holden wanted every possible witness to speak.

(Obviously, the second-in-command couldn't accuse his fellow 'Brother' and 'random' passenger without proof. Connor would have been an invaluable witness, but alas he was invisible.)

Few were awake that night and even less had relevant information: a couple sailors saw a light in the Captain's quarters, Pietro reported that some herbs were missing from their crates and Holden admitted he didn't remember anything but dull sea and steady wind.

Further inspections were soon proved useless and eventually stopped.

However, Henry never stopped glaring daggers at Jamie and neither did Connor.

Haytham spent the last days of travel watching his own back and trying not to draw further attention to himself. The Assassin helped him a lot – as he always did – by checking the dark hallways of the ship and standing like an invisible stone guardian in front of his room.

It didn't take much for Jamie to discover an 'oddly adaptable force-field' around Haytham. Connor tried to push the man overboard once, but he had quickly grabbed a ledge and hopped back on deck. Only his wide eyes were proof of Connor's intervention.

The Assassin rummaged through Jamie's belongings once a day – which did nothing to lessen the man's developing paranoia – to find out more about him and his motivations behind his interest in Haytham.

Jamie kept a journal – fortunately for them – which, combined with the letters and weapons he brought on the ship, were enough for Connor to figure out who he was and why he was after Haytham.

"He was a member of the French Brotherhood," said the hooded man, "and had been given the order to find you."

Haytham frowned. "Are you saying he wants to help me?"

Connor shook his head. "No. He _had_ agreed to find you, but the Templars – Birch in particular – got in contact with him and offered a higher payment to keep your whereabouts a secret."

The boy clenched his fists at the mention of the Grandmaster. He pressed his lips together. "Of _course_."

"When the Brotherhood discovered he was leading them astray, he ran into hiding. He decided to collect his payment when he heard Birch was coming to Bordeaux."

"And that's when we… killed him…" It made sense somewhat, but it still didn't explain why Henry was discussing with a traitor and Jamie got into the same ship as them. It was too specific to be a coincidence, wasn't it?

Connor shrugged at his question. "Henry is most likely still unaware of his betrayal since he is- _was_ the second-in-command of the _Dawn Star_. Jamie probably wanted the documents Reinhold was bringing."

Haytham blinked. "What documents?"

"Information about some valuable artefacts," said Connor, frowning. "It does not matter. I have already destroyed them, so that no Templar may get their hands on them."

The younger Kenway didn't even seem surprised. "I see."

* * *

Haytham almost jumped off the ship onto the dock in his haste.

Jamie Blaire had become increasingly unpleasant each day - Henry, too, though he was too busy with the ship to pitch Haytham overboard. Not that he would (or could) have done that. As for Jamie, well, he wasn't too sure.

Even if Henry was an Assassin, staying near him would mean staying near Jamie, so Haytham and Connor decided to disappear without saying a word to either of them. It was for the best.

The younger Kenway lightly swayed upon hitting the dock - almost three months at sea were bound to mess up with his balance, after all - but he tried not to let it stop his run. Connor helped him when he was about to fall or accidentally stumble into other people and led him into Boston's deepest alleys.

Haytham didn't dare use his Eagle Sight. He knew movement and Sight didn't mix well at all. Besides, he trusted that Connor wouldn't lead him into danger - not willingly, anyway. And whatever trouble they'd run into, the Assassin could get him out of it.

The hooded man looked over his shoulder once they reached some sort of… unkept garden, or something. "He cannot have pursued us this far," he said.

Haytham nodded and leaned on the tree growing in the middle of the 'garden'. He let his shoulders sag slightly.

"We should find the Brotherhood. We either search for them in Boston or we reach the Homestead. To do that, we should get you new weapons and clothes."

Haytham smiled before he remembered their main problem. "How do we get them? We have no money."

Connor hesitated. "The fastest method is by stealing, though I usually prefer a more… legal approach. Although I think this is the best method with that traitor Assassin here in Boston."

* * *

Though he knew that stealing was wrong, Haytham picked up a few skills along with the coins.

He honed his acting skills, for one. Women were often sympathetic to this poor boy, whose parents had been murdered in cold blood by burglars in the night. The story of how he used to live lavishly got to the more rich-looking men - if only because they thought their 'kindness' would repay them later.

Connor also taught him how to steal from passerbys. A light touch in a dark alley, fleeing without running and checking the reward away from prying eyes. Bumping into his targets would only get them more suspicious of him from the start, Connor told him, so Haytham had to focus on synchronizing his steps with his targets' strides.

There were a few mishaps in the beginning. For instance, a man noticed him pickpocketing and tried to beat him with his walking cane, but Haytham wasn't slacking off on his climbing training and managed to get away.

Connor, of course, always returned with more money and trinkets and things they (Haytham, mostly) needed or could sell. Fortunately they didn't have to sleep outside, not even the first night: the Assassin had stolen enough to rent a room at an inn, the _Roaring Lion_. He was wary of the _Green Dragon_ , for some reason.

The innkeeper - Mister Anderson - was bound to get suspicious of Haytham's source of money, so he had to agree to help him with some simple (yet time-consuming) tasks to pay his rent. Cleaning the cups, the floor, the tables… he even tried to make him cook, once, and never again.

Meanwhile, Connor hoarded money for clothes, supplies and maybe a horse and searched for Assassins in Boston. He also led astray Jamie in his pursuit of Haytham, somehow - he just knew that it worked.

At least until, one week after the _Dawn Star_ docked, Jamie leaned over the bar counter and whispered- "Found ya."

Haytham hurled the cup in his hand on his nose and fled to his room.

He threw the door open. He closed it and locked it. The man was trying to break down the door, hit after hit, and _Connor wasn't here_. He usually returned around supper, which was almost two hours away.

His eyes darted around the room. He had to get everything he could and climb outside. Connor would find him for sure - there was no way he wouldn't. Haytham hurried to grab everything and secure it on himself with leather straps and belts.

A pouch full of coins. His dark blue coat. His journal. His quill and inkpot. His two spare ribbons. His dagger.

The door creaked under Jamie's kicks.

Haytham threw the window open and jumped, sparing no glance behind him.

He huffed as he almost smashed his face on the wall. He tightened his grip on the balcony and glanced up, mapping a climbing route to the roof. He stretched his arms as far as he could, grabbing on loose planks, windows and ledges.

He made it to the roof and looked around with his Eagle Sight.

There was a sea of gray all around him, with smudges of red and white here and there. Haytham squinted at the flicker of gold of the… north gate? Why not a hiding place?

Jamie snarled a curse from below him and Haytham sprinted to the golden gate.

He leapt to the next roof, climbed up its tiles and slid down to the edge. He jumped down on the nearest tree branch and fled as quickly as he could. If Jamie found him, he'd be in a world of trouble.

"Hey! You, there!" A guard called him. "Stop!"

Haytham didn't stop. It was unlikely the redcoat would shoot him - he hoped - but he wasn't about to take any chances. He swung down a branch and an horizontal flagstaff and onto the street below, jarring his own bones and surprising a small crowd of people.

He honestly couldn't care less. He had a pursuer to shake off his trail - his first actual pursuer, and _Connor wasn't there_. Haytham hurried to the northern gate, though he took the extra precaution of slinking and skulking in the darkest alleys, keeping his dagger ready.

He didn't know how and where Connor stole it: it didn't matter. He had a weapon and he knew how to use it, should anyone try to take him. _That_ 's what mattered.

If his arms quivered and his breath sounded too loud to his ears, well, he supposed he could handle it when it came down to kill or be killed. He did it before.

Luckily for him and every child-kidnapper around, they never met.

Haytham glanced behind him with his Sight at every corner he turned, but Jamie was nowhere to be seen. He didn't know whether it was a good or a bad sign. He shook his head and took a deep breath: maybe it was a good sign.

He looked behind him once more and almost cried out in relief when he saw a bright blue figure striding towards him.

"Are you alright, Haytham?" Connor asked. His mouth was set in a thin line.

Haytham nodded, panting. "Did I lose him?"

"A patrol of redcoats is chasing him to the west," the Assassin answered. He started walking to the north gate and Haytham fell in step with him, though his lungs and limbs were burning. "I have found no Assassins here in Boston: I fear the Brotherhood does not yet have as strong a hold as I remembered."

Haytham frowned. "'Yet'?"

Connor pursed his lips. Why was he upset? "The reason of my presence here is far more complicated than you think. I will tell you when you are out of danger." Before Haytham could ask anything, he continued, "I have acquired a horse, some heavier clothing and a sleeping mat for our travel. Follow me."

The Assassin almost vanished into the throng of people of the main road. Muttering under his breath, Haytham followed him with his Sight.

* * *

The next morning, Haytham stared at Connor.

The Assassin sighed, rolled his shoulders and adjusted the cuffs of his white coat. He set out to clean his weapons. Anything to delay, apparently, and Haytham had had _enough_. "Connor," he said pointedly.

His shoulders tensed up minutely. "I know it is hard to understand," he stiffly stated, "but I come from the future."

Haytham frowned further. "The future."

Connor nodded. "I became an Assassin in 1773."

It was 4th April 1737. There was no way Connor came from that far in the future. "How did you get here, then? How did you find me? _Why_ did you?"

"I found and helped you because I knew what would have happened if I did not."

Haytham gestured him to continue.

Connor shuffled his feet. "You would have become a Templar. Birch would have been using your strength and cunning for the Templar Order for decades before you killed him."

He gritted his teeth. As much as he wanted to think it wasn't possible, he couldn't fault Connor. He had been wary of Birch, yes, but he refused to think it was his fault his family had been torn apart. It was Connor who gave him proof and a way out.

But there was another question he needed answered. "How did you get here?"

"An ancient artefact," Connor said. "It was a… Piece of Eden. I did not know it could bring me here."

Haytham breathed out through his nose. So Connor wasn't there willingly, but his help was genuine. He had no second thoughts, nor objectives. He could accept that.

* * *

They reached the so-called Homestead four days later.

Or at least, they reached the territory that Connor found more or less familiar. Some trees were younger, the rocks sharper, the roads less travelled. There was no one of the people Connor had known (will know).

Haytham didn't know how to properly ride a horse, so Connor sat behind him and corrected him as they trotted to - presumably - the Davenport manor. It was the Assassin who held the reins.

It proved to be the best choice for what happened after.

Connor straightened on the saddle. He turned around and cursed. "Haytham," he warned, "hold on tight." He snapped the reins. The horse neighed and began galloping down the steep path.

Haytham gripped the horse's flowing mane. He could see nothing. "What's going on?!"

"HIYA!" Connor spurred the horse with a kick to the flank. "We are being followed!"

A shot rang out behind them.

Haytham flinched. Who was shooting at them?! He couldn't look behind him - Connor covered all his back - and he couldn't see in front of him. He was blind. So he focused on what little he could feel with his other senses.

The ground thundered beneath their horse's hooves. Each obstacle in their path - fallen trees and rocks - and bump almost jolted him out of the saddle altogether. He was gripping the mane so tight his knuckles were white.

Another shot rang out, this time taking a branch too close to Haytham's head.

"Stay down," Connor growled at him, jerking the reins to the right and snapping them again.

Haytham tried to flatten himself on the horse's back. He couldn't see anything. He couldn't _do_ anything. His heart was beating too loud in his ears.

He was terrified.

A bridge gave way to the ground, for a moment, and Haytham was sure Connor murmured they were close, and if they were close they'd be safe from whoever was chasing them-

Another shot rang out, but this time it struck true.

Connor gave a strangled shout and toppled to the right, taking Haytham with him.

They both tumbled to the ground. Jagged rocks cut his skin and Haytham coughed as he breathed in the dust he raised. His muscles still ached from the previous days: now, they screamed in protest to his every movement.

He looked up just in time to see their pursuer getting off his horse.

Haytham was belly down on the road, and he could only stare in horror at Connor's unmoving body lying just a few feet away from him. Connor must have taken the brunt of the impact, he dimly reasoned. There was blood pooling around him.

"Nowhere to run anymore," Jamie sneered at him, languidly reloading his still smoking pistol. He was walking towards him as if he had all the time in the world.

Haytham glared at the man. He shot Connor! "You _bastard…!"_

The traitor Assassin tut-tutted. "Such language, boy. What would your father say?"

"That you deserved it," he snarled.

Jamie angrily strode the last steps and jerked him around, so Haytham had his front exposed. He grabbed his throat, squeezing tight enough to bruise. "I'll show you where that mouth of yours will get you," he hissed into his ear.

Haytham couldn't remember how to free himself. He tugged futilely at Jamie's hands - leverage on wrist, he dimly recalled - but he wasn't strong enough. He gurgled as the man squeezed tighter. His vision became fuzzy at the edges, his hands went limp, his eyes began to close.

This was it.

But then the pressure suddenly eased, he could breathe again and he gulped in as much air as he could, relishing its rush to his lungs.

"What do you think you're doing on this land?!" an unfamiliar man shouted.

Haytham flinched and curled on himself. He didn't have the strength to answer, not yet. His throat was still throbbing, a painful reminder of what just happened a few seconds ago.

"I was just dealing with this thieving little devil," Jamie spat, and Haytham thought _lies, lies, all of it._

"You chased this boy all the way to this land to kill him?" the other man asked, disbelieving. "For theft?"

"Because of _him_ , all the important documents I was to retrieve are gone! He set back my work by months, if not years!"

"And what is your work, exactly?"

There was a pause. "...Je n'ai pas été informé de votre présence ici, Monsieur de la Tour."

The now-known man snorted. "Il y a beaucoup de choses que vous ne savez pas, Frére…?"

"Je suis Jamie Blaire, Monsieur. J'ai été envoyé ici par la Fraternité française."

Haytham knew enough of French to understand that Jamie didn't know this 'de la Tour' was there and that he claimed it was the French Brotherhood who sent him. Haytham wanted to deny every lie spilling out of Jamie's mouth, but he had yet to find a way to speak without his throat closing up.

He slowly pushed himself to a sitting position, wincing. Connor was still lying on the side of the road, but now he was pressing his hand on his back. Haytham didn't allow himself a sigh of relief yet. Just how bad was his injury?

The other Frenchman crouched in front of him, blocking his sight of Connor. "Who are you, boy?"

He glared at him, almost refusing out of spite. But maybe the Kenway name still carried weight in the Assassin world. It was worth a try. "Haytham Kenway," he croaked.

De la Tour blinked. "You're quite far from home, Haytham."

Haytham just glared at him and crossed his arms. He needed to check on Connor, but those two were blocking his way and he didn't have enough strength to get past both. He'd need his words to convince this De la Tour of Jamie's betrayal and yet he could hardly speak.

It was going to be a long hour.

* * *

Haytham had to sneak out the manor later that night to check on Connor.

John de la Tour had manhandled him all the way to the manor - where, at least, they met Achilles, who proceeded to berate his colleague. De la Tour was almost as rough as Jamie had been when he was choking him. Did Connor know that man? Why didn't he warn him about him? Was he different in the future?

Haytham's lips curled in annoyance. Of course, Connor knew the Brotherhood of six decades in the future: he had no idea it was barely starting now.

The Assassin only wanted to help him, he conceded. It wasn't his fault he didn't know. It wasn't his fault they found Jamie chasing them. It wasn't his fault John de la Tour was as unwelcoming as Assassins could be.

But it was Haytham's fault Connor got shot.

It made sense: if Jamie hadn't found Haytham and followed him, Connor wouldn't have been shot. Thus if Haytham had not been there, Connor wouldn't have been shot. It was simple reasoning.

He found Connor sitting by the river.

Relieved, he walked up to him. "Connor," he greeted.

The hooded man turned to him. He was trying to bandage the gunshot wound on his lower back, but couldn't do it properly. Haytham was just glad he was alive. "Are you alright?"

A surge of exasperation overwhelmed his relief. Haytham glowered at the ghost. "You got _shot_ because of me, and you ask _me_ if I am alright?" he muttered. He grabbed the ghost-bandages from Connor's hands and set to help him. "I… I'm fine. I will be. Will you?"

Connor stayed silent for a few seconds. "I will. I have survived worse."

Somehow, Haytham didn't doubt it. But he still had to ask. "Such as?"

The hooded man stayed silent again as Haytham tightened the bandage around his torso. How was it possible Connor didn't even hiss? It was sure to be painful. "I have run under cannon fire multiple times."

 _What?_ "Cannon fire?" Haytham's voice was almost shrill. Whether it was because of the near-choking or the shock, not even he was sure.

"Yes."

" _Why?_ " Why did Connor thought it wise to run under cannon fire?

"It was the only way to help."

Oh, that was _it_. "You're not helping anyone by _dying_ ," he snapped. He had been worried sick, damn it.

Connor turned to face him fully with his frown. "I did what I had to do. You are alive still: I trust that man is a true Assassin?"

Haytham's jaw dropped. He thought Connor had been unconscious the whole time. "...He is," he reluctantly agreed. De la Tour had turned up a pale blue to his Sight, but still. "I don't like him."

The two of them eventually left the river and snuck back into the manor for the rest of the night.

* * *

The next two days were nearly unbearable.

Connor was by his side, yes, but he was still injured and in pain. Haytham had to tear his gaze away from him every time it fell on his silent, hunched figure. He couldn't even get up and ask him what he could do to help him: De la Tour, Achilles and Jamie were watching his every move.

The breakfast on the first morning, especially, was tense.

De la Tour had murmured something that was probably an apology, which Haytham supposed Achilles forced him to say. That man had something strange about him - gold and white, like Birch - and Haytham wouldn't trust him until he had solid proof. He nodded, but didn't forgive him yet.

Jamie shone a blinding red, equal only to Braddock. They glared at each other every time they crossed gazes. The only reason it didn't come to blows was Achilles and De la Tour's continued presence.

Achilles seemed a good man. He shone blue and gold. Haytham felt safer around him than the two Frenchmen. Though Achilles sometimes shot him those looks that meant Haytham had better stop glowering at Jamie, right now. Connor must have gotten them from him, he realized.

Connor, for his part, stoically endured the pain he was in. He told Haytham his wound healed faster now than it did when he was alive, which calmed the younger Kenway.

It meant Connor was not in danger of dying, possibly ever, unless someone shot him in the head or he fell down a cliff onto jagged rocks. Could he die when he wasn't even born, he wondered, and promptly shoved that question out of his mind. It wasn't something he wanted to test.

Haytham even had to steal some bandages for him, since the ones he had carried from the future were all soaked in his blood. It was during the night of the first day - twenty-four hours since they snuck back into the manor - when they discovered that, if Connor maintained physical contact with something for twenty-four hours, it would turn invisible to normal people.

They wondered if it could work with people, too. Haytham could use invisibility.

"I do not think that is wise," Connor warned him. "I fear there is no way to turn back this process, should you want to become visible again. Your life is not worth risking for this."

Though still curious about how it'd feel to be invisible, Haytham agreed. He didn't know how Connor was still sane, considering he could speak only to him. He only had Haytham and his own memories to keep him company.

Memories which were of a time too far in the future to be useful to them now.

Haytham was relieved that the manor, at least, already existed. It was a bit too bare compared to what he was used to and what Connor told him, but that he understood. Not enough time has passed. Connor was still mostly familiar with its structure, though some rooms had changed over time.

On the third morning, Haytham was jarred out of his thoughts by sharp knocking on the door of the manor.

* * *

Connor left Haytham in his temporary-but-hopefully-permanent room and snuck downstairs, carefully avoiding the creaky parts of the steps.

It was Henry Holden.

The now-captain looked weary and jittery. His blonde hair poking out of his tricorn hat were just a tad too frazzled, his blue coat had flecks of dirt at the hem and there were ink stains on his hands.

"Mentor," he breathlessly greeted De la Tour, nodding at him. "I'm afraid I carry nothing but bad news back here."

Achilles, who stood just a step behind De la Tour, straightened and led the way to the dining room to his left. Once Holden was inside the room, Achilles turned to John and told him to make up an excuse to make Haytham leave the manor for the next two hours.

Though not used to taking orders, De la Tour nodded and went upstairs, nearly brushing Connor's shoulder.

Haytham shot Connor a dubious look on his way out.

"You will know," the Assassin simply said, and Haytham left with no backwards glance.

It didn't take much time for Achilles, De la Tour, Holden and Jamie to meet in the dining room of Davenport manor. Connor sat in a corner and listened intently.

"Captain Andrew Reinhold is dead," Henry immediately began, jabbing a finger at Jamie, "because of _him_."

Jamie shrugged.

"I believe he was to be kept alive," said Achilles, frowning at the Frenchman.

"He _was._ " Henry crossed his arms. "Until I found Mister Blaire on the ship and he thought it _funny_ to interfere with my covert operation."

Jamie glared briefly at the captain. "He was a Templar. We are Assassins. It's clear what we should've done."

"It was a _covert_ operation!" Henry snapped. "My covert operation! Captain Reinhold was in charge of carrying Templar correspondence regarding the Precursors! The English Brotherhood has spent lots of resources to plant me as his quartermaster, and _you_ -" he jabbed his finger on Jamie's chest, "-ruined _everything_."

De la Tour nodded. "We'd be lucky if the Templars accepted Monsieur Holden as Reinhold's replacement," he stated. "Better yet, they don't assume it was him who stole the correspondence and kill him on sight."

Henry's expression soured even further. "About the information, Mentor, I carry even worse news. Just a few days before Mister Blaire killed the captain, all the correspondence just disappeared."

Achilles's eyebrows climbed up on his forehead. " _Disappeared_?" he repeated. "Impossible."

"And yet…" Henry shuffled his feet. "I've combed the whole ship, cabins included. Before leaving the ship, everyone on board had to show me their luggage. There was just no trace of it."

 _'I burned it and tossed its ashes overboard,'_ Connor thought. _'Of course there was no trace.'_

De la Tour took to pacing back and forth. Achilles gave him a rather wide berth. "And soon the whole Vieux monde will know and the Templier bâtard with Kenway's journal will just rire de nous derrière nos _dos!_ "

De la Tour slammed his hands on the table, making both Henry and Jamie cringe. So that was why Achilles gave him space. John de la Tour had a temper - a dangerous mix when added to his Assassin skills.

"Vous, mon frère, avez mis en danger notre frère anglais avec votre hâte!" the Mentor shouted at Jamie. "Vous avez mis en danger la _Fraternité_! A quoi étiez-vous en train de penser?!"

For his part, the other Frenchman managed (barely) to keep his eyes locked with the Mentor. "Reinhold knew about the Precursors. Had I let him live, every Templar here would've known about them too."

The discussion soon escalated into shouts in both French and English between De la Tour and Jamie. Sometimes Holden interjected, irked and angry his mission had been so thoroughly ruined.

Achilles had enough of them after one minute and threatened to kick out of his manor whoever behaved like a "five-year-old spoiled brat who shout whatever horse crap crosses his mind."

They calmed down after that.

"I also carry two good news," Henry said, his lips almost twitching into a smile. "Reginald Birch was killed the day we left Bordeaux. Someone managed to sneak Haytham Kenway on the Dawn Star, so the boy should still be in Boston - I'm afraid I've lost sight of him though, but I'm sure we can find him."

Achilles nodded almost imperceptibly. "No need. Haytham has sought this manor on his own accord." He shot a scathing glare toward Jamie. "He's safe now. As for the Grandmaster, who will take his place?"

It soon became clear nobody had any idea. Birch was raising Haytham as his successor, they reasoned, but now that Haytham was on the other side of the world there would be a fight amongst the Master Templars of France and England.

This way, at least, both the French and English Brotherhood could take advantage of the situation and kill as many Templars as they could.

Connor left the dining room when their topic shifted towards more logistic matters about the Dawn Star. It wasn't relevant to Haytham's safety. Jamie's continued presence was.

Achilles, De la Tour and Holden had no idea Jamie was a traitor. They needed to know that before he contacted the few Templars in the Colonies and killed the Brotherhood just now beginning to grow. Connor would not stand idly by while he threatened the Brotherhood and Haytham.

So Connor inconspicuously stole Jamie's journal and left it wide open in Achilles's study.

* * *

 **I'm baaaaaack! I swear I will find time to finish this, somewhen in the future. The plotbunnies have been attacking me way too much lately and... well, this is the result of procratination :P**

 **I hope you enjoyed this Chapter!**

 **(Let's also pretend it was before 1740 that Achilles and De la Tour met and decided to found a Brotherhood in there)**

* * *

 **Translations French-English:**

 **Je n'ai pas été informé de votre présence ici: I have not been informed of your presence here**

 **Il y a beaucoup de choses que vous ne savez pas, Frére: There are a lot of things you don't know, Brother**

 **Je suis Jamie Blaire, Monsieur. J'ai été envoyé ici par la Fraternité française: I'm Jamie Blaire, sir. I was sent here by the French Brotherhood.**

 **Vieux monde: Old world**

 **Templier bâtard: Templar bastard**

 **rire de nous derrière nos dos: laugh at us behind our backs**

 **Vous, mon frère, avez mis en danger notre frère anglais avec votre hâte!: You, my brother, have endangered our English brother with your haste!**

 **Vous avez mis en danger la Fraternité! A quoi étiez-vous en train de penser?!: You have put in danger the Brotherhood! What were you thinking?!**


	10. Chapter 9: How Time Flies

**Chapter 9**

 **How Time Flies**

* * *

Haytham knew De la Tour just wanted him away from the manor.

But still. Tending to the _horses_? He barely knew how to do that. Connor had shown him (most of) the ropes, but how was he supposed to feed and groom _five horses_ without at least one of them galloping away into the sunrise and getting eaten by wolves?

It was madness. There was one horse per Assassin. Haytham was twelve - old enough to kill, he thought uncomfortably - but he has _never_ tended to horses.

Except the day before, when De la Tour and Jamie had to talk in rapid-fire French about what happened in France - maybe - and Achilles had shown him to the little stable just by the manor's side.

Still.

Haytham sighed and started gathering the hay for the horses. They all neighed appreciatively when they smelled and saw their food, lightly trotting to the mounting pile of hay. He scrunched up his nose. The _smell_. It was going to haunt his dreams.

He tried to distract himself. He thought of his future as an Assassin and how proud his father would be if he knew his son had chosen the same path as he.

But the thought of his _dead_ father burned like wildfire and Haytham hastily shoved it away. Another memory popped up - "Age of piracy", the book with drawings and maps and names of people his father had probably met - but he couldn't think about the book without thinking about Birch and his betrayal.

Haytham belatedly noticed he had given too much hay to the horses and blinked away his tears. Not _now_.

He went back inside the stable - it looked like sloppy work, but what did he know - and gathered a currycomb, a dandy brush, a body brush and a grooming rag. His arms couldn't carry more than that if he didn't want to get even dirtier and smellier.

Haytham turned to the horse he and Connor had ridden - a dark brown mare who didn't seem to like Jamie's steed at all, with good reason - and started grooming her. The others will have to wait and _not get out of the stable_.

He shot a deeply annoyed look at De la Tour's horse, who was just about to trot outside.

The horse stared back at him and neighed morosely before trudging back inside.

Haytham smiled to himself. Good.

* * *

Connor joined him outside one hour and a half later and, as he helped him with the horses, he told him what happened.

"You put his journal in De la Tour's study?" Haytham eventually asked him, just to be sure.

Connor nodded. "They will soon find it," he said, and pressed his lips together. "The Brotherhood does not take kindly to traitors. He shall die."

Haytham nearly sagged in relief at that. "Thank you."

* * *

Haytham and Connor stepped inside the manor just as the screaming started.

"I am no traitor!" Jamie shouted as he was bodily dragged to the door by both Henry and Achilles. "Why would you think _that?!_ I've done nothing but-"

"-but betraying your _Fréres!_ " De la Tour snapped at him. "Vous avez été corrompus par l'argent _templier_! Despicable, _traitre_ , méprisable!" He almost trampled Haytham in his rage, but he stopped enough to say- "Move, boy! This traitre shall get what he deserves!"

Haytham nodded and moved aside.

Jamie's expression twisted into something vile, wrath and disgust etched onto his face, as he looked at the young Kenway. "It was _you_! _You_ were looking into my journal, moving things in my cabin!"

Haytham simply shrugged. Jamie's face turned redder and he struggled more desperately into the Assassins' grip.

De la Tour opened the door and socked him in the jaw, stunning him. "Tais-toi, _traitre_."

Achilles and Henry dragged Jamie somewhere behind the manor, with the stables just out of view. De la Tour strode ahead of them, while Haytham and Connor trailed a few steps behind.

Haytham supposed he shouldn't feel so relieved - bordering on happy, really - that someone was going to die. He also supposed that Jamie wanted to kill him, so it was only natural that Haytham would do everything in his power to stay alive and mostly safe.

Connor did most of the work for him, actually. Haytham owed him his life multiple times. He should do something nice for the hooded man, sometime in the future.

He had a feeling Connor would be permanently content even if Haytham did nothing but become an Assassin.

Henry kicked the back of Jamie's right knee and the Frenchman crumpled to the ground. Both Achilles and the captain had frowns on their faces, though Henry's was more of a snarl. De la Tour took a sword from the sheath at his left hip and put it just below Jamie's throat.

"What have you to say now, traitor?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Jamie spat on the Mentor's dark green waistcoat.

The Mentor buried his sword between Jamie's collarbones, just below his throat.

He twisted his weapon - was it stuck? - and wrenched it out with a sharp movement of his arm. Jamie collapsed to the dusty ground, staining it crimson with his lifeblood.

As his life ended, Haytham's had just begun.

* * *

For the first few months, De la Tour, Achilles and Haytham lived together inside the manor and learned how not to step on each other's boundaries - mostly Haytham's. The Frenchman was still as iracound as always, though he did have his moments of near genius-like lucidity. Achilles didn't seem to hold him in very high regard - they were equals, almost: De la Tour had just reached the Colonies first - and they often disagreed over their plans.

If they were angry enough, they shouted at each other over what to eat for supper.

Haytham eventually learned to evaluate De la Tour's anger level by counting how many French words slipped into his speech. If they were just three or four per sentence, it would soon pass. If he started shouting more than two sentences in French at someone who did not speak French as fluently as him - Achilles and Haytham - he knew he had to hide, _fast_.

By the end of May 1737, Achilles left for Boston and decided to take Haytham with him.

"You managed to hide in the city for a whole week before that traitor found you," the would-be Mentor told him. "It is also time for you to pick up some skills that cannot be taught here."

Thinking about all the pickpocketing and acting he did, Haytham was proud he managed to keep a straight face.

So of course he was not surprised when Achilles pointed a plump old man and told him to steal something from him, whether it be coins or a letter.

Haytham - wearing his dark blue coat, the one he had bought with stolen money - snatched a pouch and a silver ring from the man. Checking the ring, he was relieved it did not bear the Templar cross.

"That's not yours!" a boy shouted at him, and Haytham fled.

The young Kenway managed to hide thanks to Connor, who helped him slip into the second floor of a building nearby. The other boy - about three years older than Haytham - searched the area until Achilles rounded the corner, seemingly unconcerned, and pointed him in the wrong direction.

Achilles told Haytham to be more careful next time he picked someone's pockets, and he was pleasantly surprised the would-be Mentor didn't stop glowing blue. Haytham risked failing his task, and Achilled glowed an even _brighter_ blue. He was _proud_. Of _Haytham_.

He loved seeing blue. He loved drinking in the sight of it. Especially when both Achilles and (eventually) De la Tour started shining a solid azure. He loved it so much he insisted on having more blue clothes, instead of the traditional Assassin white or the strange 'dirty leaves' shade of the Frenchman's waistcoat.

For stealth's sake, Haytham agreed on a darker blue than the azure of the Eagle Sight.

It was October 1740 by then, and Haytham had spent nearly every second of those three years learning everything he could.

Achilles and De la Tour left him behind in the manor more often as their duties to the budding Brotherhood grew more pressing. Haytham told them he could handle some weeks alone. It wasn't exactly the truth - he had never been completely isolated, so he didn't know if he _actually_ could - but Connor was always with him.

With the whole manor and the surrounding woods to their leisure, they were both free.

Haytham learned the differences between climbing buildings and trees. He learned how to map a climbing route on the branches. He learned how long he could run in waist-deep snow, and how much he hated it. He learned how to move silently enough to catch animals unawares.

There had also been a small wolf pack, once, which Haytham didn't want to see ever again. Explaining it to De la Tour had been _embarassing_.

"Pourquoi were you outside, Haytham?"

"I was climbing the trees around here, Mentor."

The Assassin stared at him, unimpressed. "How far from the manor is 'around here'?"

"..." As far as Connor told him it was still Homestead territory, actually.

De la Tour sighed. "At least you brought the sword I gave you."

Haytham nodded and winced as the Mentor tightened the bandages around his left arm a bit too much.

"Don't go this far," De la Tour told him, " _ever_ again."

* * *

On 4th December 1740, Connor gave him a bow.

Haytham had no idea how or when he found every material and painstakingly put everything together - because Connor never stole anything when he could avoid it - but, somehow, he did it. He worked for the better part of the year just to give Haytham a new weapon.

Usually, Connor's gifts took one month at most to be created - the eagle drawing and the dreamcatcher, for example. His wonderfully smooth bow - along with six arrows and a quiver - had taken nearly nine months, starting from scratch and scouring both woods and cities to find the right materials.

Haytham had been almost afraid he'd have cried right then and there.

Connor could have left him at the manor and disappeared to find a way back to his own time. He could have stayed with him just long enough to make sure he'd survive. Instead, Connor was actively spending his time and (mental) resources to make him live his life at its fullest and help him along.

Haytham had been so touched by his gesture that he forgot Achilles and De la Tour didn't know anything about Connor's presence.

"Where did you get them?" Achilles asked him a couple days later, when he returned from his week-long trip to Anticosti.

He was so excited he didn't even know what could possibly be wrong. "Get what?"

"The bow on your back. The quiver… and the arrows."

Haytham froze in the doorway. Riiiight. "Uhm."

"I'm afraid I can't teach you archery." Achilles sighed. "If you just asked me you wanted to learn, I'd have told you and you wouldn't have stolen-"

"I didn't _steal_ it!" he instantly defended himself, shooting the man an indignant look. "A… friend gave it to me. For my… birthday."

Achilles raised an eyebrow at him. "Would you mind to introduce me to your 'friend', then?"

Haytham almost bristled at the way Achilles said 'friend'. Connor was _real_ \- he just wasn't able to see him. "I don't mind," he said and turned to the Assassin standing a couple feet away.

"No." Connor frowned at him and crossed his arms.

The young Kenway turned to the would-be Mentor. "He does mind though."

Achilles frowned. His ' _Really, Haytham?'_ look was eerily similar to Connor's. "Where did you _really_ get the bow?"

At the end of their hour-long argument, Achilles was convinced Haytham had befriended a master thief that occasionally dropped inside the manor without anyone's notice and would take Haytham away if the Assassins weren't careful.

Which wasn't what Haytham wanted at all. At least Achilles didn't think him too crazy just yet, maybe.

* * *

His hypothesis was proven wrong when a certain Liam O'Brian started showing up at the manor.

He thought the Irishman - just a year younger than him - was a bit brash. And maybe a bit too paranoid. But Achilles had probably given him the task to check for master thieves around the manor and Liam looked at the man with something akin to heroship, so Haytham knew he'd take it more seriously than he should.

Connor was taking Liam's hostility towards him - not _him_ , but the idea of his presence near the building - with the calm of someone used to it. "He does not hate me," he told Haytham. "It would hurt only if he hated me for who I am."

Haytham frowned at him. "Why would he hate you if you're an Assassin?"

Connor's lips twitched upwards. "I am also one of the Iroquois."

"Oh." Haytham sometimes forgot Connor - Ratonhnhaké:ton, actually - wasn't supposed to be normal. Kanien'kehá:ka on his mother's side and British on his father's. "I think he'd still consider you an Assassin Brother."

"Then you see why his enmity does not trouble me."

Haytham nodded. The Brotherhood made no distinction between races and nationalities.

* * *

The Brotherhood grew larger and more powerful as the years passed.

Haytham and Liam had been the first Assassins initiated in the British Colonies, on 7th July 1743. Just a year later, Louis-Joseph Gaultier Chevalier de la Vérendrye - Haytham had rolled his eyes at the unnecessary length of his name and his know-it-all attitude - helped them pass through French territory undisturbed to reach their target.

Achilles also met a woman called Angélique (who later changed her name into Abigail) during one of his missions, chasing leads about the so-called Pieces of Eden. Though Connor was happy for Achilles's newfound love, he told Haytham that those artefacts would only bring sorrow to those who sought them. The young Kenway argued that Achilles was searching for them only to keep them away from Templar hands, but Connor wasn't convinced.

At the end of May 1745, Achilles returned to the manor with Abigail and De la Tour's robes.

"Mentor De la Tour," he told the two (three) Assassins, "has fallen in battle. He appointed me as his successor."

Connor did not seem surprised at the news. "I have never met him in my previous life," he told Haytham, "and Achilles had always been Mentor when I came here. It was not a hard connection to make."

It wasn't, really. But Achilles still seemed a bit too hunched for his thirty-six years of age during the first few months. It did not suit him at all. Fortunately, it also did not last long. De la Tour had been important in starting the Brotherhood and they all mourned him: but they also knew the best way to honour his memory was to continue growing.

The next year, he initiated Chevalier and Kesegowaase of the Wolastoqiyik into the Brotherhood. Because of this, the Assassins gained strong connections in French politics and territories, as well as allies in nearly every French-aligned tribe. With the income they provided, Achilles built a couple houses around the manor, since it was getting crowded with all the new Assassins and training structures.

But there were also some tribes that were neutral in the British-French conflict, and Achilles needed them to remain that way. It would take very little for their French allies to anger the tribes and that would be bad for their growing Brotherhood.

Haytham offered to parlay with the Kanien'kehá:ka, specifically.

Kesegowaase had raised an eyebrow at him. " _Very few of them speak English or French, Brother."_

" _I wasn't planning on speaking English,"_ Haytham told him in fluent Mohawk, smirking.

Achilles muttered something about how he'd deal with native master thieves on his land and sent his first protégé to make a deal with the Kanien'kehá:ka. Haytham was excited all those language lessons with Connor would finally pay off.

Connor readily led him to Kanatahséton, the village he was born in, and they (Haytham) worked their way through the other nearby villages as well as tribes of the Haudenosaunee, or Iroquois.

Their diplomatic tour didn't give them many good results though: nearly half of the villages had already decided to side with the British - it also didn't help that Haytham was English to the bone - except for Kanatahséton.

Oiàner - the Clan Mother - decided to honour their deal of neutrality if the Assassins provided protection for them in case of attack. Haytham thought it was only fair and accepted.

He didn't know if he would have accepted so soon, had he known there were already people trying to force them out of their land.

It was a woman of the Kanien'kehá:ka that told him the news - Kaniehtiio.

She led him on a chase through the treetops - probably thinking Haytham couldn't help them if he couldn't follow her - and only when they were at the edge of Kanatahséton's land she relayed everything she knew. Connor had been silent as a rock when she started talking to Haytham.

There were small camps of mercenaries throughout the woods - at least three every time - that frightened away every animal with their gunshots and heavy stomping. When they met passing Kanienkehaka hunters, they either threatened them with their muskets until they left or told them the land was soon to be sold.

"Let me have a word with them," Haytham told her - who of course rolled her eyes at his tone - and he left to find a group of mercenaries.

* * *

His dark blue Assassin robes would blend well enough in the darkness of night, Haytham decided. He checked all his weapons - sword, Hidden Blades, dagger, a couple throwing knives, bow and arrows - and approached the first group he found.

"Good evening," he greeted.

All three men scrambled to point their muskets at him.

"I suppose you won't even allow a wary traveller warmth and rest?" he asked, still smiling innocently, with his hands hanging loosely at his sides. "That's a shame."

"We don' need yer fancy speak," one of them said. "Go away."

Haytham glanced at Connor, who was sneaking behind their backs, and smiled wider. "We're all fellow subjects of His Majesty, are we not?"

"Nein," a boulder of a man sneered at him, pointing his musket higher. "Leave, before we fill you with lead." His german accent was heavy, especially on the 'w's and the 'v', which were turned respectively into 'v's and an 'f'.

Haytham raised an eyebrow. "That's not very nice."

Connor kicked the German mercenary behind his right knee and broke his neck.

The two other men turned at the sickening 'crack' of broken bones, leaving Haytham a split second to hurl his throwing knife at the farthest one from Connor. The only survivor - the one who had not spoken - got stabbed by two Hidden Blades on both sides before he could raise his musket again.

Haytham looked down at the corpses. "We could donate their weapons and bullets to the tribe and their corpses to the wolves."

" _Ià._ " Connor shot him a mild glare. "We cannot allow wolves to taste human flesh, in case they prefer it over deer and hare. We will burn them."

He nodded, though he almost rolled his eyes. "Of course. But we need to deal with the other groups first."

At the end of the first night, the body count was up to ten mercenaries.

* * *

The following night, Kaniehtiio almost smacked him behind his head. "They have brought _more_ of their _companions_ now!" she hissed at him. "If we allow this to continue, they will find Kanatahséton!"

"I have a plan," Haytham told her and, seeing her glare hardening, he hastily added- "It's an _actual_ plan this time, I swear it'll work."

She crossed her arms. "Speak."

At the end of his explanation of his terror tactic, he asked if she thought it'd work.

Kaniehtiio's answer was: "No."

"It _will_ work," Haytham repeated. Connor was unhelpfully silent. "We allow only two of them to leave. They'll think this land is cursed, they'll think it's not worth the trouble and relay as much to their employer. They won't come back here."

"And if they still do?"

"We chase them out and let the wolves take care of them."

Kaniehtiio nodded slowly and raised her eyebrows, as if to say, ' _Well, that's great.'_

It took a month of nearly uninterrupted slaughter before the mercenaries were too frightened of 'evil redskin spirits of the night' to venture into Kanienkehaka territory, but in the end it worked.

"See?" Haytham told Kaniehtiio the first night they found nobody in the woods. "I told you it'd work."

She lightly smacked his shoulder, though he could see her relieved smile in the moonlight.

Haytham left Kanatahséton a week later and returned to Davenport with the name of a greedy man to assassinate, a half-successful mission - since the other Iroquois tribes sided with the British - and the gratitude and loyalty of Kanatahséton.

* * *

"Have you already met Kaniehtiio?"

Connor's lips twitched as if he were forcing back a smile... or a grimace. "Yes."

Haytham supposed he shouldn't pry into the future, but he was _curious_. "She's..." _beautiful_ , his brain oh-so-helpfully supplied, but that word alone wasn't enough to describe her. "...fierce."

Yes. She had a fire in her eyes, burning in her soul and fueling her actions. Her tongue was sharp when she wanted it to and her mind was even sharper. Haytham had never met a woman like her, and he doubted he ever would.

Connor seemed to ponder on his words, still as a statue. "...She is," he quietly agreed.

The two Assassins stared at the fire crackling in front of them, which banished the darkness from their small camp.

"Can you tell me something about her, Connor?"

The white-hooded man stared at him for a few seconds - in which Haytham felt as if he were being judged - and then he nodded. "I would not mind," he said. "Kaniehtiio once told me of a time when she was hunting. The snow was soft and deep under her feet..."

* * *

As March 1747 rolled around, Achilles sent Haytham and Liam to start an information network in New York, look for the young skilled pickpocket Hope Jensen and - as per Liam's suggestion - find Shay Cormac and dig him out of his misery.

The two Assassins decided to start by a tavern near the docks, the _Crimson Crescent._

Liam swept the crowded room with his gaze and sighed. "There he is," he muttered, nodding at two drunks yelling in a corner.

Haytham trailed after him, scrunching up his nose. He was terribly uncomfortable inside stuffy, smelly and overcrowded buildings. He'd take a long travel in the woods over an evening with drunkards anytime. Sparing a glance in Connor's direction, the time-traveller seemed to agree.

Drunk 1 shook his fists at Drunk 2, taking a step towards him. "-an' don't you dare speak to me like-"

Drunk 2 shoved him back. "-ain' scared of a yippin' landlubber. ya know...!"

Liam put himself between the two men and pushed them apart. Drunk 2 fell to the ale-stained floor in a heap. "Shay, come on-"

"I AM NO _LANDLUBBER!_ " Drunk 1 - aka Shay Cormac - shouted at the groaning sailor he was arguing with. Then he looked, really _looked_ , at the not-drunk person near him. "...Liam…?"

The Assassin sighed. "Yes, Shay, it's me, Liam. You know me, I know you." Liam grabbed his friend's right arm and started half-dragging him to the door. "Haytham, take his other arm."

He wrapped his fingers around Shay's arm and followed Liam outside. The man must be more than three sheets to the wind to oppose zero resistance to being manhandled, Haytham supposed.

The three of them stopped in an alley nearby.

"What have you been doing to yourself, Shay?" Liam asked, sounding deeply disappointed.

"Drownin' my sorrow- you know what, Liamm?" Shay stared at his friend's chest for a few seconds, as if lost in thought... which he could not be, since he was stiff drunk. " _Where_ didyagetthese fancy _rags_?"

Liam sighed heavily. "I've been busy."

"So've I…"

"Yes, chugging ale without a care."

Shay straightened so fast he almost fell, had Connor not reached for his chest. "Father _died_ and _you were not here!_ " he snarled at his friend and batted Connor's arm away, glaring at the white-hooded man. "Don' _touch_ me!"

Connor stepped back out of sheer shock. Did Shay just... _see_ him?

Haytham stared at the drunk man. "No one touched you," he slowly said, frowning.

Shay turned his head to the side, swaying and still glaring. "Then whaddoyou call _him?_ " He muttered, jabbing a finger in Connor's direction. "Innit _he_ s'mone?"

"There's no one there, Shay," Liam sighed at him. He grabbed his arm again and tugged. "Come on. You're doing nobody any good this drunk."

Shay instantly forgot about Connor at the physical contact and started rambling in Liam's ear about taverns and storms and ungrateful sailors.

The two Kenways did not forget.

Shay just saw Connor.


	11. Chapter 10: Assassin Years

**I returned! ...Hooray?**

* * *

 **Chapter 10**

 **Assassin Years**

* * *

With the excuse he needed fresh air, Haytham (and Connor) left Liam and Shay in the inn room they rented. The two Assassins climbed up the nearest church, where they would keep an eye on the city and have enough privacy to speak freely.

"How is it possible?" Haytham asked. "It's too much a coincidence he looked right at you. But he can't _see_ you, can he?"

"I do not know." Connor frowned, deep in thought. "The only other person who saw me - besides you - was holding a Precursor artefact. You are not. He is not. I… I have yet to understand how those artefacts work."

Haytham mirrored his frustrated expression. Even _Connor_ had no idea. As long as it was only Shay who could see him, it was strange, but acceptable: but what if it was a Templar who could see Connor? What if they killed him?

He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. The mere thought of losing Connor made his heart ache. Haytham could not allow it to happen. Jamie had already shot him in the back: they were lucky the time-traveller healed faster than usual.

But what if their luck ran out?

"There must be something he and I have in common," Haytham muttered, pulling his hood lower on his face, thinking. What could be so important about that drunk man that he could see Connor? What was so special about him?

Maybe… it wasn't something they would know?

Connor told him he didn't know why Haytham could see him. But there must be something connecting them across time and space. The Assassin would point the Precursor artefact Connor touched as the link between them.

But how was it linked to Haytham? That was the question they needed to find the answer to. If they found why Haytham could see Connor, they'd discover why Shay could, too. It was simple reasoning. It was logic.

The Pieces of Eden, apparently, were anything but logical.

By the end of their vigil, Haytham and Connor were left with as much information about Shay as before - which was none at all. The only decision they took was for Connor to hide from Shay until they could talk with him privately.

* * *

It happened five months later in the sweltering heat of July.

Achilles - who had just returned from a trip to Anticosti - allowed a day of rest for Shay, whom Liam was ordered to train: the same day Haytham returned from the assassination of a Spanish Templar down south.

Shay was sleeping on a branch near the cliff of the Homestead, clad in a light cotton shirt and breeches. He had nestled his shoes on a nearby branch and he was enjoying the wonders of barefooted-ness in summer. It was the nearest thing to sleeping in a hammock, Shay had lamented just two months before, because the Assassins had _everything_ _but_ _hammocks_.

Haytham envied him a bit, sweating as he was even in his lighter Assassin robes.

Connor, somehow, didn't seem as affected by the heat. It was only he who had to suffer, Haytham thought a tad bitterly.

"Shay Cormac?" Connor called, looking up at the sleeping man. "Shay?"

He stirred.

Haytham entertained the thought of throwing a pebble at him, but decided against it. He had not spoken much with Shay and starting this discussion with a fall off a tree would be just awful. He found a compromise. "Shay, get your arse down here," he said, imitating Liam's Irish accent.

Shay nearly fell off his branch.

"Why, Kenway, _why?_ " he bemoaned, clinging upside down on his sleeping branch. He jumped down and frowned at both men. "What got your breeches in a twist _now_? And who's this fun fellow with you?"

Haytham frowned at the comment. He didn't even shout.

"My name is Connor." The time-traveller offered his right hand.

Shay laughed and shook his hand. "Always glad to hear a Irish name. Mine's Shay, though you know it already." His gaze travelled up and down Connor's huge figure. "Never seen you, yet you wear Assassin clothes. When did you sail here?"

"1737."

Shay stared at him. "So… you just returned here from oversea?"

"I have never left."

"Bullshit."

Haytham's eyes narrowed. "He's telling the truth, Cormac."

"I've met all Assassins here by now," Shay said, glaring back at Haytham. "Liam, Kesegowaase, Chevalier, Hope, Achilles, you." He turned to Connor. "You, I've never seen."

"You have not because I did not want you to see me before now," Connor patiently answered and continued before Shay could comment. "No one else but Haytham - and now you - know of me because they do not see me."

Shay tilted his head. "They _don't?_ " he drawled.

Connor nodded. "They cannot."

"Why can't they? You're an Assassin." Shay gestured to the man. "And you're here."

"They are not able to see me."

Shay narrowed his eyes. "Now you're just pulling my leg."

Haytham sighed. They were talking in circles, losing time they should spend explaining Connor's time-travel and the overall mystery of his ghost tendencies. "We're not."

"Prove it."

He sighed again. Shay's tone had the bite of a challenge, the underlying growl that plainly stated he was itching for a fight. He'd have to prove it through Shay's own information for the Irish sailor to believe him. He took his bow off his back and showed it to the man. "How do you think I got this?"

Shay frowned, but he was willing to play along. "You bought it."

"Where?"

"There must be a shop around here. They already sell arrows, why not bows?"

"How much do you think it costed?"

Shay scrunched up his nose. He stepped closer to observe the bow, to feel the smoothness of its wood, to touch the beads and the decorations on it. "A thousand pounds?"

"I was fifteen when I got this bow. What Assassins were around here in 1740?"

"Achilles," Shay immediately answered. He frowned. "Liam?"

Haytham shook his head. "He joined a few months after I got this. There were Achilles and John de la Tour, our previous Mentor. He didn't know how to wield a bow. Do you think Achilles can?"

Shay's frown deepened. "Maybe?"

"He told me he couldn't. Now," Haytham said, concluding his round of questions, "do you think Achilles would have spent a thousand pounds on a bow I could not learn to wield because of the absence of a proper instructor?"

The Irishman was silent.

Haytham felt he was going somewhere. He glanced at Connor - who was just waiting for Shay to understand - and continued. "Connor made this bow and taught me how to wield it. Did Liam ever tell you to look out for thieves around the manor?"

"...Yes."

"That's because he could not see Connor and couldn't find an explanation as to how I got my bow." Haytham put his weapon on his back again. "Are you convinced now?"

Shay scowled at him. "You could be lying."

"You could ask Achilles and Liam."

Shay shook his head and sighed. " _If_ that's true" he said, "why can _we_ see you, Connor?"

"That, I do not know." The Irishman was about to interrupt him, but Haytham threw a quelling glare in his direction and he held his tongue. Connor briefly explained what meager information they had about the Pieces of Eden and their hypothesis on the matter.

At the end of that, Shay looked even more doubtful.

"Or maybe I'm three sheets to the wind again," he muttered, unconvinced, and began his trek back to the Assassin's quarters, three small houses for the Assassins not living in the manor.

Haytham and Connor let him go. Shay needed to understand in another way.

* * *

Shay was training and Connor wanted to prove a point.

"Shay," Achilles was telling him, "I know you can climb up rigging and masts just fine. Show me how you climb buildings." The Mentor gestured to the side of the manor, the one farthest from the strange white columns and the terrace.

Connor walked right beside Achilles. "I will watch, as well," he said.

Achilles did not react.

Shay blinked and turned to face the brick wall. Now, where should he put his feet to climb? Falling flat on his arse in front of the Mentor was not an option. He needed to get up there on the roof. Everyone in Davenport did it. It'd be a piece of cake.

Shay glanced to the side and saw Connor watching.

He started climbing, placing his feet on loose bricks, on the window frames… and promptly cursed in his head at the wall. It was too _smooth_. It wasn't built to be climbed. He was just below the roof, his feet on the upper window frame, but the edge was too high. He had to jump.

He slipped.

"GODDAM _MIT!"_

He fell flat on his back, his air knocked out of his lungs. _Fuck._ So embarrassing.

Achilles offered him a hand. As soon as Shay was back on his feet, his cheeks burning with shame, the Mentor spoke. "You could've done worse. Consider this your starting point and keep learning from here. You slipped: how could you have avoided it?"

Shay stared intently at the wall. _How_ could he have avoided it? He was only so tall. He couldn't just wish for a growth spurt - which he would not - and stretch his grown arm to the roof. There was no path _up_ from there.

He almost jumped out of his skin when Connor spoke behind him. "Achilles did not forbid you to climb on the terrace and reach the roof from there."

Shay glanced at Achilles. No reaction. It was as if he _really_ couldn't see or hear Connor.

He stared at the windows and the terrace and saw that Connor's words made sense. It was just a longer climb. "I could have reached the terrace first," he told Achilles.

The Mentor nodded, a corner of his lips turned upward. "Sometimes a longer route is safer than the short one. You'll start to understand the limits of yourself and your environment, and then your path will become clear. Patience is your first lesson."

Shay almost squirmed at the approval Achilles directed his way, almost groaned at yet _another_ man telling him to be patient, almost threw his hands up as it became clear that Connor and Haytham were actually right about Connor not being visible.

He let none (he hoped) of that show and just nodded before turning to climb the wall again.

* * *

While Shay's training continued, there were other missions for Haytham to complete.

As winter crept onto the land in November, Kesegowaase found a man whose business was tearing families apart and condemning their descendants to a life of slavery. It was threatening the tribes and their villages and the Assassins were bound to intervene, if only because of their pacts.

Every time Haytham saw slaves being whipped, yelled at for almost starving or dying of fatigue, he had to force himself to move along. It could have Achilles, it could have been Abigail; it could have been Connor. It was sickening.

Assassins hid in plain sight. But Assassins fought for freedom, too: _everyone_ 's freedom. It was too idealistic to think he could change the world alone, but he couldn't stop wishing he could.

It came to the surprise of no one that Haytham wanted this mission to be over as soon as possible with the maximum damage to the slaver.

Kesegowaase had gathered information from the tribes near the slaver's land and from the groups of mercenaries scouring the woods, as did Haytham. The two of them led twenty-one Iroquois to the slaver's land.

Kaniehtiio was among them.

"Thought you'd seen the last of me?" She asked Haytham.

He smiled. "Of course not." Seeing her after all this time left his insides pleasantly warm.

The feeling left him soon after: it was time to sneak inside the slaver's land, free as many people as possible and kill everyone who stood in their way.

Haytham looked around him and saw that Kesegowaase and every Iroquois (Kaniehtiio and Connor included) were as furious as he felt. There would be no mercy for the slaver and his lackeys that night.

* * *

Twentysix captives were too injured to be moved anywhere. Half of them had broken legs - they had tried to escape their torture, Haytham knew - and the others were covered in cuts and bruises. Some had broken arms; most had grotesque scarring on their backs, evidently made by a whip. Another had taken a blow to the back and couldn't feel anything from the waist down.

Five of the warriors who volunteered embraced their lost ones. The others cried out to know what happened to their sons, their daughters, their parents and friends.

Connor would often step forward, his hand outstretched, as if trying to help them, but he flinched back when he realized he could not. No one but Haytham knew he was there. And he had no idea what to do: he couldn't do anything to heal their wounds or mend their bones.

Someone had to wait there.

"I'll bring these people to their home villages" Kesegowaase told them. Fifteen warriors and thirty captives followed him. "Word of this will soon spread. Can you defend the others?"

Haytham nodded, though he almost rolled his eyes. Of course he could. "We'll stay here until they've recovered. It should take a week, minimum."

Kasegowase told him he would ask the tribe to send another group of warriors to bring the people to their homes, so Haytham only had to wait there with six (seven) Iroquois.

He had at least seven days to spend with Kaniehtiio. His heart beat faster at the thought.

* * *

He noticed a bandage around Kaniehtiio's right arm.

Haytham strode up to her and asked, "Who did this to you?"

She smirked. "Someone now dead." She kept on walking to the balcony on the second floor of the villa, which they had declared their headquarters. Or rather, Haytham did. The Iroquois just went along with it.

The Assassin followed her. Connor had just left to- maybe hunt, or gather herbs and wood, or just to get a breath of fresh air after the previous night of slaughter. He knew a lot about Kaniehtiio, but always fell silent or grew uncomfortable when near her, even when she could not see him. It was strange.

"Ehm…" He was _not_ jittery, or nervous. He was just warming up his hands. "Why did you volunteer?"

Kaniehtiio raised an eyebrow at him. Haytham instantly felt the stupidest man in the Colonies. "My people were in danger. Why did _you_?"

"I find that..." he gestured to the camps, where crops were still growing, soaked in blood, "...that practice _sickening_. Nobody has any right to force others to do their bidding." He sighed, gripping the handrail of the balcony a bit too tight. "If only they understood that…"

The woman shook her head. "They won't."

"A man can still hope," he answered, a bitter smile on his lips. "Maybe, if enough people push for change…"

She looked down at the bloodstained ground. She seemed angry, and almost… dejected. "Maybe."

Haytham stared at her. She was not one to just… give up. If she ever did, it would never be his fault, that he swore. He wanted her fire back in her eyes. "And while they hope and push, we'll start changing the world," he dared put his bare hand on hers and squeezed lightly. Kaniehtiio looked at him. "Even if it is one death at a time."

She raised her eyebrows, blinked and gripped his hand back. She had grim smile gracing her lips and a flicker of her fire behind her dark irises. "So be it."

* * *

Eventually, Shay also joined him on missions.

With the Templars confined to the southern Colonies or - in the north - dormant without a leader, their targets were often despicable men, enemies of the French or both. Templars were rare, but they existed all the same… unfortunately.

This time they were chasing a Templar sympathizer in New York. If he managed to flee on a ship, they'd lose all the documents he was bringing to the Templars down south. There were maps and documents about the French, Chevalier and Davenport, which would lead a whole Rite of Templars to their doorstep. They could not let him succeed.

Connor found the man's hiding place and he could have broken in himself to kill him and retrieve the documents, but he argued that he and Shay "needed the practice."

Haytham sighed, but he could feel a smile tugging at his lips. He was itching to do something.

Since they also wanted not to have their faces plastered on every wall of New York - _hide in plain sight_ \- Haytham and Shay killed two mercenaries and donned their clothes. Perfect disguise.

It would be a piece of cake.

* * *

It was _not_ a piece of cake.

Apparently the Templar informant had more connections and resources he had any right to have. He was surrounded by clever guards who had some sort of hand gesture that worked like a subtle code. It was barely a flick of the wrist and the ring finger - something so minute not even Connor had noticed.

They had snuck through an unguarded window, but they didn't know about the damned _code_.

Haytham dodged an incoming bayonet and stabbed the mercenary's kidney. "We need to get the informant before more arrive."

An alarm bell rang through the halls. From where, or who rang it, they did not know.

Shay swore under his breath. "He'll flee tonight if we-"

"Split up." Connor unsheathed his own ghost-Hidden Blades. "We'll cover more ground."

The three Assassins did split up. Haytham took a hall heading to the garden, Shay the one to the front door and Connor the one to the backdoor. There were _so many_ mercenaries.

Haytham swung his sword at whoever dared to cross his path. He was running, and running while fighting would soon leave him out of breath. He dodged and whirled around the attacks, hurled himself through doors and behind corners to avoid getting shot.

It was not his first mission going sour - not by a long shot - but it was always so damned _difficult_ to predict the outcome, it drove Haytham crazy. Especially when Connor wasn't with him. And now Shay - the only one besides him who could see the time-traveller - was in danger as well. Could he handle everything thrown his way? Haytham hoped so.

He shoved another screaming mercenary out of his way and jumped through an open window. He looked at the garden with his Eagle Sight - just a moment, to see if all that blood spilled was worth something - and saw a smudge of gold fleeing to the docks.

Haytham shot at an incoming mercenary and climbed up the building once more. A couple bullets ricocheted near his right arm. He had to go.

He stood on the roof and saw a barrage of red breaking into the house. The redcoats had _finally_ come to do something about the mercenaries-

Through the front door.

He swore. Shay'd better not be fighting the redcoats, or so God help him…!

He didn't have time to lose. The informant was still fleeing, but Shay was in danger. He was good - especially considering he chose to fight with both sword and dagger, a difficult but extremely rewarding choice - but he was about to get overwhelmed by the British, which would be hard to explain to anyone.

Haytham muttered a few insults - he was _not_ a _nanny_! - and threw a smoke bomb into the fray. The bomb exploded, the soldiers coughed their lungs out, Haytham shoved them out of the way and dragged Shay to a corner nearby. He was coughing, too.

"Either stay here, flee, or be _useful_ for once," Haytham hissed and took off. He had yet to fail a mission, and he would not start _now_.

He took to the rooftops, climbing and leaping, gaining ground on the Templar informant under the sound of alarm bells ringing and swords clashing. Eventually they faded, replaced by the waves of the sea and the creaks of the ships.

His target was leaving. He was about to board a ship!

Haytham shot him with another of his guns - he had yet to reload - jumped down the building and sprinted to the downed target, burying his Hidden Blade in his throat.

It was over.

"Halt, murderer!" A musket was levelled at him from somewhere behind him. How could he have missed that? "Hands up where I can see 'em. You're coming with me with charges of multiple murder and-"

The man gurgled something unintelligible and fell on the docks with a dull thud.

Sailors fled, people screamed and ran for their lives, and Haytham turned around.

Connor was staring at him… blankly. His ghost-blades were slick with blood and his robe had a could stains as well, but he was not injured. Being invisible must be easy. "We should find Shay again," was all he said as they left the docks.

* * *

They were holed up in an incomplete Assassin headquarter. Liam, Hope and Haytham had recruited people to build it, while Chevalier had brought some building materials.

The room was small, little more than a cell with two beds and a desk. It was only one window, which at least was not made of iron bars but of glass. It was four hours before dawn.

Connor was glaring at Haytham. Shay refused to look at him.

"I completed the mission," Haytham defended himself. He crossed his arms. "The Templar didn't make it on the ship."

Connor stepped forward. "But at what cost it would have been?" he asked softly. He gestured to Shay, who was poking at his bandaged left shoulder. "His life?" He pointed at Haytham. " _Your_ life? No information or target is worth sacrificing yourselves-"

Haytham's eyes flared in anger. He stood, straight, glaring into Connor's eyes. " _Who_ in this room has run under _cannon fire_ for the Brotherhood? Who had given it all for the Brotherhood?"

"That had not been _senseless_ ," the time-traveller answered. He was still a bit taller than Haytham, and more imposing. Haytham did not step back. "You say you completed the mission. But who had the documents?"

Haytham wanted to answer - _well, me, of course_ \- but the words died on his lips, because they would have been a lie. He swallowed. "Shay."

The Irishman gestured to his right, more or less in the direction of where they left the bloodstained papers. "I took a handful of 'em in my mad run to the front door." He huffed a bit, as if out of breath. "Imagine my surprise when I saw redcoats swarmin' me, thinkin' I was one of the others."

Haytham glanced to the floor. He stared at his fellow Assassin. "I gave you time to flee."

"I believe your words were 'stay here, flee or _be useful for once',_ " Shay spat the last words. "Could at least have left me near a thick bush or some haystacks, instead of dropping me off two damned steps away from other redcoats."

The Assassin shook his head and lowered his gaze to the ground. He didn't speak.

"This time it went well," Connor whispered, not moving from his place, "because I was there to help. But it might not the next time."

* * *

That mission - April 1748 - was but a hitch in their relationship. Haytham still went out of his way to save Shay's hide, Shay eventually healed without a problem (though Liam had not been happy about the injury) and Connor kept existing, contrary to what he continued repeating.

It was November 1748 when Haytham, Shay and Connor had to kill some time in their rented room in Boston because of a snowstorm blowing through the streets.

"Three more months and it'll be two years since you joined."

Shay nodded, rubbing his hands. He grinned. "You'll offer me some good ale for the occasion, right?"

Haytham rolled his eyes. "Only one pint. Two if I'm feeling generous."

"Aw, come on!" Shay pouted, draping his cloak over his shoulders. "At least five. I get drunk only after eight." Then he snapped his fingers. "You could offer Connor some!"

The time-traveller shook his head. He had tried ale once, and had nearly spat it across the table. "I don't drink."

"But Connor, it's the day I first met you two!" Shay's humorous pout faded and he stared at the wooden floor. "...when I was… drownin' my sorrows…"

Shay looked like a kicked puppy, and Connor felt his chest tighten. They had all lost their fathers and their mothers. Haytham and Connor had turned to revenge to keep going; Shay had no one to blame but the unforgiving sea, and turned to alcohol.

The Irishman barked out a bitter laugh. "He- He was holding the helm one second… and the next… Overboard. Lost." He tightened his grip on the cloak. " _Dead._ "

The air rang with his short confession. In the five months before he talked with Connor, Shay had remained mostly with Liam or Hope. He took an instant, mutual dislike to Chevalier. Kesegowaase was still a bit suspicious of him, for whatever reason. They had not talked about their fathers.

Haytham shuffled into the blanket he had thrown over himself. "My home was on fire. Templars had kidnapped my sister," who they still had to save, some time in the future, "tried to kill my mother and killed my father. He was… stabbed in the chest."

The two Assassins then looked at Connor. They had told each other how they lost their fathers. Now it was time for Connor to speak. He didn't want to, but there wasn't anything else to do but reveal their tragic past. It was supposed to be a secret, but he was not good at lying.

So he tried not to give his father too many clues. "I have not talked to my father until I was twenty-two. I have heard of him only from my mother." And Achilles. "We… did not often agree and we did not part on good terms." He closed his eyes and sighed. He remembered the cannon fire and the crumbling buildings and the sharp clashing of sword and tomahawk. "He died… because of me."

Haytham and Shay didn't seem to know how to answer to that. They heard how strained his voice was, how painful it was to tear old wounds open and lay them bare. And it wasn't even the whole truth.

Connor's gut lurched unpleasantly. His pain has deterred Haytham from asking more, but what would he say if - _when_ \- his curiosity became stronger than his restraint? What if… if he finally _knew_?

Could Connor hide that secret for as long as he 'lived'? The Spirit had been clear when she spoke to him in his dreams. He would not exist for long. His time with his 'father' and Shay was limited. He had to make every second of it count. He had to change the future for the better.

For _them_.

* * *

In 1748, Achilles and Abigail's son was born.

Connor Davenport.

The inner circle of Assassins was abuzz. Haytham, Liam, Kesegowaase and Hope congratulated the two lucky parents - even Chevalier managed a few smiles for the baby that so bravely grasped his finger. Shay had been let inside the manor to gush and make silly faces at Connor.

"Achilles gave him your name!" Shay said to the grown-up Connor, grinning from ear to ear. "It's funny, isn't it?"

The time-traveller kept his face grave. "It is but a coincidence."

Haytham shook his head, but his smile did not falter. Baby-Connor - he had to distinguish them now - was born healthy and Abigail did not suffer any unusual complications of childbirth. The Templars laid quiet in their lairs. Kaniehtiio did not turn him down. All was good. "Perhaps he'll grow as strong as you, one day."

Connor just grunted his assent. It wasn't very convincing.

"Why are you such a stick in the mud?" Shay asked, spreading his arms to the side. He chuckled. "Connor's just born."

The Assassin's continued silence made Haytham's smile turn into a frown. "What do you know?"

Connor stared at him and must have seen in his eyes that beating around the bush would not have stopped him. He lowered his gaze. "I have never seen him alive."

Haytham's blood ran cold. He became an Assassin in 1773. He had to have trained for years beforehand. Knowing, just after his birth, that Baby-Connor wouldn't even reach twenty years of age… it was terrible.

But they knew _now._ They could change things. "How did- _will_ he die?"

"Fever." Connor lowered his head, hiding his face in the shadows of his hood. "I do not know when. We cannot change it."

That revelation robbed Haytham and Shay of their enthusiasm for Baby-Connor's birth. He, too, had his days numbered - and they could do nothing.

* * *

Four years passed since then. In March 1752, Adewale moored his _Experto Crede_ in Davenport.

Shay was busy cutting wood when he saw Adewale walking up the path to the manor. Achilles hurried to meet him with a smile on his face.

"Achilles," the older man greeted the Mentor.

He nodded. "Adewale! How go things in the West Indies?"

The man was about to answer when he caught sight of Haytham walking towards them. Connor was just behind him, but Shay knew by this point that no one could see him. His eyes grew wide. "Is that…?"

Haytham closed the distance between them. He bowed slightly and offered his right hand. "I'm Haytham Kenway-"

Adewale grasped his forearm and shook it vigorously, smiling. "Haytham. Last time I saw you, you were but a little boy." His grin faltered then. "I'm sorry for not coming to you sooner."

Shay saw Haytham pursing his lips. "I didn't turn out so bad now, did I?"

There was something biting in his question, but Shay couldn't pinpoint just why it was. He and Grown-Connor played their cards close to their chests: he had been let in on their time-travelling-ghost secret only because he could see him, for whatever reason. He knew very little about their lives before he found them out.

Achilles intervened in the awkward lull in the conversation. "How is the Brotherhood doing, Adewale?"

That made the Assassin turn around and shake his head. "Very poorly, I'm afraid."

"Your countenance tells me we should discuss this." Achilles gestured to the manor. "Come. You too, Haytham."

The three of them (Grown-Connor, too) left Shay to his woodcutting and his doubts. However, it wasn't long before Liam joined him.

"Who's our visitor?" he asked.

"That's Adéwalé. He was a slave who freed himself and hundreds of his brothers in the West Indies." Liam crossed his arms and a corner of his lips turned up. "That man's a living incarnation of the Creed."

Really? So that was why people spoke of him like an Assassin legend. "I see… but… why did he visit Haytham when he was little?" His friend raised an eyebrow at him. "I mean, that's what he said. I just…"

He sighed. "I'm sure Achilles told you about Edward Kenway. But you weren't listening, were you." It wasn't a question.

Shay lowered his gaze and fiddled a bit with the axe in his hand. So? He didn't think it would be so important. "Was he Haytham's father?"

Liam nodded. "Adewale had worked with him to kill the Templars in the West Indies. Then Edward left for Europe and Adewale stayed down south." He tilted his head towards the sprawling training area around the manor. "Enough talking. You join me for some practice now."

Shay wanted to eavesdrop. He shouldn't do it, especially since he wanted Achilles to trust him. Being discovered eavesdropping on a conversation between two Mentors and Haytham would not make a good impression on Achilles. Maybe Connor and Haytham would tell him that, at least.

He let down the axe on the stump near him. "Let's go then."

* * *

 **I got around to replay Rogue these days - hooray for summer break! - so... there you have this. It is a bit of a filler Chapter for the next ones where shits goes down really fast and snowballs into... well, you know. Things (will) happen :D**


	12. Chapter 11: A World Shaken

**Chapter 11**

 **A World Shaken**

Achilles sent Shay on more missions, now that he had the Morrigan. His very own ship. Haytham and Connor had been happy for him - he always loved being out at sea, when there were no storms - and the time-traveller admitted he had become (will become?) the captain of another ship.

"You need a ship too, Haytham." Shay smiled, looking out to his _Morrigan_ docked in Davenport. "The _Morrigan_ , the _Aquila_ and…"

He had considered getting one, but he found his talents put at better use on the ground. Besides, he wasn't eager to be constantly compared to his father. That was a topic best left alone. Haytham waved his hand dismissively at him. "I'll leave those matters to you two."

"But Connor doesn't have his ship yet," Shay groused. "We'll have to wait for, what? Twenty years?"

Connor shrugged. "More or less."

That made Shay groan and mutter to himself about their lost occasion until he and Liam had to set sail to River Valley, chasing a lead about two Pieces of Eden - the Manuscript and the Box.

Grown-Connor was wary of those. With good reason, too: they tore him away from his life in the future and sent him forty-seven years in the past. For some reason, they linked him, Haytham and Shay. And now Achilles wanted those two artefacts - or whatever they were - into his own hands, when he had a wife and a child in his home.

Seeing the three of them together, smiling, _happy…_ it made Haytham's heart ache. His own family was lost and he had yet to leave the Colonies to search for his sister. But maybe…

"What do you think… Kaniehtiio would like, as a gift?"

He couldn't see Connor's face clearly in the darkness of the woods, but he could tell he was surprised. "Why do you wish to know?"

Haytham crossed his arms. "Curiosity."

By Connor's sigh, it was not the right answer. He didn't want to fill in the blank - he had yet to make complete sense of his feelings, though he could guess it was something stronger than affection - but he had to.

"I… I want to court her."

Connor had straightened on his branch. "Do you?"

He had to bite back a sarcastic retort. He wouldn't ask him if he didn't, would he? "Yes."

That made Connor nod and sit more relaxed. "Kaniehtiio prefers gifts she can use. She often joins the men in their hunts, so I think she will gladly accept a hunting knife." He tilted his head to the side. "It had worked with a huntress of the Homestead. I believe Kaniehtiio will like it as well. If you had more time to spare, you could create a wampum for her."

The problem was that his duties to the Brotherhood made it difficult to have long stretches of free time, and wampums were hard to put together, bead by bead. Especially if Haytham wanted it to be a surprise for Kaniehtiio.

"Usually," Connor added, after a pause, "courtship with colonists is frowned upon. Sometimes it is not even permitted." Haytham slumped his shoulders. "But you have helped her people many times. If you ask Oia:ner... and Kaniehtiio loves you, I believe they will make an exception."

That made Haytham's hope soar high in the starlit sky. Maybe he had a chance to have a family of his own, before Fate robbed him of that joy as well.

* * *

Oia:ner had given her approval. Achilles, too. Shay just wanted them to "kiss already."

After nearly three months of courting her, Kaniehtiio agreed to his marriage proposal.

Haytham was almost certain his face would forever be stuck in that smile stretching from ear to ear. Connor was smiling too, and he stood a bit taller, prouder. Kanatahséton was busier than ever, preparing the marriage, congratulating the soon-to-be betrothed, asking around if an outsider should marry Oia:ner's daughter.

The only problem was that both the bride and the groom's mothers had to be there to consent to the marriage, and Haytham didn't know whether his was still alive, nevermind if she agreed.

"A parental figure will do," Connor told him, and Haytham would have asked him to fulfill that role if he were visible. He had stuck by his side for seventeen years: that had to count for something, right?

But alas, he was not visible. Haytham wasn't sure whether Achilles would shirk his duties as Mentor to participate in the wedding.

"Marriage happens one time in your life, Haytham," he told him, smiling, quietly shutting the door of the manor behind him. "It would be unfair of me to miss this occasion. I hope whoever's available can join?"

"Yes," Connor said, and that's what Haytham repeated to Achilles.

That was how Achilles, Abigail, both Connors, Kesegowaase, Shay and Liam attended to Haytham and Kaniehtiio's wedding, and danced by the light of the bonfire in Kanatahséton until dawn.

* * *

Shay wanted to speak to him. In private.

Haytham almost told him to make it quick - he's had Kaniehtiio as his wife for barely two days - but there was something about the tense set of his shoulders and his fiddling hands that made the Assassin hold his tongue. He still gestured him to elaborate.

"Washington was already sick when I stuck my blade in his throat," Shay told him, still fidgeting. "His Templar friends got away, maybe with the Manuscript and the Box. His death won't be that much of a blow to the Order." He paused. "Was it worth it?"

Haytham almost answered - _of course, he was a Templar_ \- but that was not what Shay needed. What did Connor tell him? _He may have been a Templar, but that did not make him any less human._

"Washington was still a Master Templar, sickly or not," he carefully replied, "and he was trying to use the Pieces of Eden for his own gain." At least, that was what he supposed. "If he had lived long enough to make them work, we would've been his first targets. We don't know the height of their potential yet, so anything is possible."

Haytham put a hand on Shay's stiff shoulder. "Still, the moment you stop asking yourself that question, is the moment you should be returning your blades. Assassins do _not_ kill without purpose."

His friend nodded, swallowed and said, "Alright." He forced a smile on his lips. "I've kept you away from your wife long enough. Have a _good_ night, Haytham."

Haytham did _not_ blush at Shay's suggestive tone.

* * *

The typhoid fever came in the first months of 1754.

Achilles, Abigail, Little-Connor, Hope and Kesegowaase weren't in any condition to do anything more than lie in bed, take whatever concoction the doctor of Davenport cooked up for them and - if they so wished - pray to get better.

Haytham and Liam took the regency of the Brotherhood in the meantime. Grown-Connor helped in any way he could, as well as Kaniehtiio and Kanatahséton - the Assassins were close friends of the tribe now, almost part of it.

But there was nothing they could do for Little-Connor and Abigail.

Achilles's family had been buried just by the side of the manor, two funeral wampums laid over their graves and at least one person mourning over them. For days, that person was Connor: nobody could tell him there were other things to do.

Achilles had not taken their death well. No one expected him to.

He summoned Haytham in his office after five days. Connor was still standing vigil next to Abigail and Little-Connor. They had known it would have happened - but it didn't make their grief any less intense.

Achilles was bent over a lot of pages - letters - strewn on his desk. "Come closer, Haytham."

He did as told. The letters were about other Pieces of Eden. There were legends, drawings and a map with circles all over. Achilles grabbed one out of the chaos.

It was a drawing of a cross, but one of its arms - the one where Jesus's head should have been - was an oval instead. It looked Egyptian, if he had to guess. He'd seen enough of strange artefacts under Birch's… tutelage. "What is it?"

"This is the Ankh. It's said it can heal any injury…" Achilles's eyes grew misty. "...and even resurrect the dead."

Haytham swallowed, still staring at the drawing. That… That explained why he ordered the Assassins to search far and wide for the Pieces of Eden. Why he was growing so impatient to find the Manuscript and the Box.

"Resurrect the dead?" If it were true…

Achilles nodded. "It hasn't been seen for hundreds of years. But now rumors of it are cropping up again, in the Old World." His eyes were grave as he stared at his first protégé, making him appear far older than his forty-four years of age. "The Manuscript and the Box are the keys to its location, Haytham, and the _Templars-_ " he spat, "-must _never_ get their hands on it. Do you understand?"

He nodded. He understood all too well.

* * *

In July 1754, Shay and Liam came back with both the Box and the Manuscript. The most learned of Europe were unable to make heads or tails of them; but the Templars thought that Benjamin Franklin had another method to make them work, and that was worth trying.

Achilles decided to summon Haytham - who was busy enjoying his time with _his wife_ , who in turn had no intention of letting her husband go - and send him and Shay to Franklin. Hope was to make sure that no Templar caught wind of the experiment or tried to interfere. The Mentor would accept no failure on their part.

The two Assassins (along with Connor, always a shadow) set sail to New York.

"Don't you think Achilles is… angrier, now?"

Haytham looked at the waves gently parting at the Morrigan's passage. "He's lost his family."

Shay scowled. "You know I didn't mean that. It's just… he's not sad. He's _furious_." He fidgeted a bit with the helm. "Don't you think it's unsettling?"

"A bit, yes, to be honest." He wanted the Ankh at all costs. He had no idea what the Box and the Manuscript did, but he was betting the future of the Brotherhood on them. It was risky.

Connor nodded gravely. "Rarely I have seen Achilles with so much rage in him. But…" he lowered his head, letting his hood cast a dark shadow on his face. "I do not blame him."

Haytham tried to imagine having a child with Kaniehtiio, only for both of them to slowly die in their own home as he helplessly watched. His insides chilled at the mere thought. No wonder Achilles wanted them to find the Pieces of Eden. For all the Brotherhood knew, the Mentor wanted the Apple of Eden out of Templar reach. Haytham knew better.

"He's still leading the Brotherhood," Shay commented. At the other Assassins' looks, he added, "I'm not saying he should step down, I'm saying that… maybe… you, or Liam, could take regency again. Until Achilles gets better."

Haytham shook his head. "If I did, I'd let Kaniehtiio down unless she moved to the manor. I'm not-" forcing Achilles to relieve those memories of Abigail "-forcing her to do that, nor taking Achilles's place. Liam…" He shrugged. "Sometimes he misses the bigger picture."

Shay steered the Morrigan. New York was just on the horizon. "And Connor's invisible."

The time-traveller let a corner of his lips turn upward. "I would have to speak through you."

"Can you?" Shay shot him a dubious look.

Connor shook his head. Haytham shrugged.

The Irishman pouted. "I'd have paid to see that."

* * *

The three of them found Franklin just as he was leaving his house with… something strange in his hands. The gray sky promised lightning and thunder in a few minutes. They had to make it quick, especially if the experiment was to be done outside.

Haytham spoke to the man. "Master Franklin, sir William Johnson sent us here to give you these." He handed him the Box and the Manuscript, finally getting his attention. "My name's Haytham and this is my associate Shay."

Franklin still looked mightily distracted. "Thank you, but I am afraid I must delay my experiment."

"Why, sir?"

The man huffed. "The army confiscated my lightning rods. They are essential to conducting the electricity I need to vivify your Box."

Did he want to actually use lightning? Haytham almost hoped he misunderstood. But an unusual problem needed an unusual solution, so he kept his mouth shut.

Shay looked concerned. "Master Johnson would not want you to have to wait."

"Perhaps there is something you can do then." He didn't stop in putting all the strange things on the desk in the courtyard, in a way that made sense only to him. "Soldiers have been hauling things away all day. Perhaps they could tell you where they have taken my lighting rods so you could get them back."

"At your service, sir." Shay turned to Haytham.

"Begin your investigation at the market near the docks. I'll stay here and help with the preparations." In any way he could, anyway: he had no idea what Franklin would do.

Shay ran away under the thickening rain.

* * *

They managed to put the lightning rods in place just as lightning started striking.

Franklin was actually using lightning to… to do _something_ to the Box. At each lightning it sparkled and gave away a strange blue light. Connor was standing tense behind the mad man.

A third lightning struck the rods and-

It was… astonishing. The blue light took the form of the world, a sphere, with several golden points dotting its surface. One of them, the brightest, it was…

"Where is that?"

Shay pointed at it. "Portugal, Lisbon. I'd stake my life on it."

The 'map' died away soon after. Franklin was leaning heavily on Connor, who had caught him before he fell. The man was so out of it he couldn't even tell there was something wrong with his support.

There was _no way_ nobody saw that mystifying blue light.

Haytham hoped no one saw Shay either, but he couldn't be too sure. "Make yourself scarce, Shay. The redcoats will be here any minute. They're bound to have some curious questions about this."

The Irishman hesitated. "What about you?"

"I'm a devoted butler." He put an arm around Franklin's shoulders. Connor reached for the Box and the Manuscript, 'hiding' them in his coat.

Shay looked about to comment, but he held his tongue. "Right," he said, and fled.

* * *

Achilles sent them to Lisbon the moment they told him about the successful experiment.

The roads there were abuzz with activity: people climbed up ladders to hang festoons and garlands on their balconies, their homes, even the convent and the church. Red, green, white and orange on the buildings, men and women and children wearing their best clothes for the Feast of All Saints.

Haytham and Shay wore their weapons as discreetly as possible, since they _were_ walking into a convent. They had their Hidden Blades and a gun each. Connor didn't have to worry: he was invisible.

He was nervous, too. "We should not touch the Pieces of Eden."

Haytham didn't know whether to agree or not. It was their mission to get whatever was in Lisbon and bring it back to Achilles. But he also had made it that far thanks to Connor, and Connor thought they shouldn't do what they were sent to do.

So he stayed silent and walked into the church with Shay.

A priest was saying something at the altar; people were praying or milling around the huge building. Everything was stone or marble. It was a treat for Haytham to see something so grand once more, especially after living in the Colonies for nearly two decades.

Maybe they could extend their stay here in Europe to contact the Italian Brotherhood and ask them to save Jennifer Scott, or do it themselves. Haytham knew he should have done it long ago.

He looked up with his Eagle Sight. "I think we should go up."

Shay glanced at him, looked up - he too had the Sight, for some reason - and said, "Uh."

"If you insist in this pursuit," Connor muttered, "so be it."

* * *

They opened a passage right in front of the doors. It led down, as if the Precursor site was a crypt, or a tomb. Connor voiced his concern - again.

"Well, we've made it this far," Haytham said. "We might as well go see what it is."

They went down.

There was a strange, smooth and dark pyramid in front of them, beyond a chasm they could cross through a levitating magic bridge that _shone_ gold.

"Uh," Shay repeated. Then he did a double-take. "Connor, you're _glowing_."

They looked at him. The time-traveller was indeed glowing a pale shade of blue, but it was different than the Eagle Sight. There were lines on his body, mostly, pulsating with the rhytm of his heartbeat, as if that light was the blood keeping him alive.

It was unsettling, but no weirder than invisible ghost time-travellers, resurrecting Egyptian crosses, mind-controlling Apples and the glowing bridge. They reached the pyramid, which revealed them a curious… pointy, shiny thing.

"Is this the Apple?" Shay asked.

Connor, still glowing, shook his head. "I have seen an Apple, once." He rolled his shoulders. "I never want to see another again. This is not it." He glared at it. "We should go now."

That wasn't the Ankh, either. They had no business there, but Haytham was too curious to just leave. This was still a Piece of Eden. "What is it?"

 _Touch it, and see for yourselves._

That voice, that biting female voice - it made Haytham's skin crawl. He glared defiantly at the thing in the pyramid. "Who are you? Why should we follow your orders?"

It - she - laughed. It sounded like nails scraping on glass. _You want to discover what it is. I suggest you touch it. Take it, if that is your desire._

All the more reason not to touch it. "Come on, Shay. Let's get out of here."

 _But it's not so simple now, is it?_

Shay had not moved. He was still staring at the glowing prism, disregarding both Haytham and Connor. The time-traveller frowned and tried to say something-

But no sound came out of it.

Haytham moved his furious gaze all over the site. Just where did the voice come from? "What have you _done_?"

 _I have restored the Timeline. Just for a few moments, unfortunately._ Haytham felt a crushing weight on his chest that brought him down to his knees. He gasped, wrapping his hands around his ribcage. To his right, he saw Connor writhing in pain on the ground. The sight chilled him to the bone, bringing back the vivid splatter of Connor's blood on dusty ground.

 _Shay Patrick Cormac has a destiny to fulfill. One that will bring the Saviour to me._ She laughed again, sending shivers down his spine. _You will not interfere anymore with my PLANS._

They were done for. Haytham was choking, seeing Jaimie's furious snarl, feeling his hands on his throat, his weight on his chest, wishing - praying - for Connor to get up and _stop him-_

Shay touched the glowing prism and it crumbled to dust into his gloved hands and _Haytham could breathe again_.

"Uh, Haytham, Connor, I think I broke-" he turned around and instantly tensed up. They were both lying on the ground, gasping for breath. "What the _fuck_ -"

The earth rumbled. Chunks of stone came crashing down on them.

"We-" Connor coughed. The bridge started losing its glow. "We have to _run_!"

* * *

They left the church - _the church was_ _no more_ \- and found the earth torn apart.

Men and women and children were screaming, whole buildings were crumbling before their eyes, all the _screaming-_

They ran. They didn't know whose lead they followed. The earth rumbled. It cracked, it splintered, it caved in, swallowing the screams of the innocents falling into its depths.

Children cried for their mothers. Their mothers were dead, their fathers were dead, their houses were on fire, their homes, their home was _burning_! They ran, they ran away from the scorching buildings and the cracked tiles and the crumbling roofs and the people buried under them.

Haytham and Shay and Connor were running towards the docks, towards safety, because the earth could not swallow the ocean. But the people, their city, their lives - those, it could and would consume, _everything-_

They crashed into a window, one after the other, and fell into the ocean and swam to their fleeing ship.

Haytham climbed on the railing, exhausted, reeling. Someone helped him up. Another sailor helped Shay. Connor gripped the handrail of the ship, staring at the burning city.

"How could God do this to them?" the sailor near his friend asked.

Shay gazed in disbelief at what once had been Lisbon. But there was something in his eyes, a pain that would grow into a wound that would never heal. "God had nothing to do with this."

* * *

Considering Shay's silence throughout the trip back to Davenport, Haytham should have seen it coming.

"He wants a _report_?" the captain of the Morrigan muttered. He clenched his fists, stomping up to Achilles's study door. "I'll give him a report, oh, I _will_ give it to _him_!"

Shay slammed the door open. "So what's the next city you want me to smite?! What happened in Haiti happened in Portugal." His expression twisted into a snarl and Haytham had to put a hand on his arm to stop his advance. "A great earthquake. Thousands _dead_ , thanks to your damned _Manuscript_!"

Achilles's eyes widened. "It cannot be."

"Shay, a person cannot start an earthquake." Hope frowned at the Irishman, ready to defend her Mentor.

Shay directed his snarl at her. "But a person meddling with these Precursor machines could. You didn't see the Box, Hope, you cannot even imagine the kind of power it had. And the Temple was bursting with it!" He nearly launched himself at Achilles. "You made me SLAUGHTER INNOCENTS!"

Both Haytham and Hope had to restrain him.

Shay shook them off. He glared at him. "You were _there_ , Haytham. You have seen what Achilles made us do! You heard them- the _screams_."

He nodded and lowered his gaze. "We shouldn't have broken into the Temple." Connor had warned them, more than once, not to get inside. To return to the Colonies and never look back. And then that Spirit forced Shay to touch that prism. "There was no Apple - only death."

Achilles frowned. "Are you sure?"

Haytham nodded. He glanced at the corner where Connor stood, glowing his usual reassuring blue. But he, too, had a deep frown on his face and his arms crossed over his chest.

Shay trembled, his fists and jaw clenched so tight it had to hurt. "You sent us in there like Mackandal sent his man in Haiti. You _knew_!"

Shay tried again to swing at Achilles, though both Haytham and Hope were restraining him. Liam barged into the room. "What the hell's going on? Stop this!"

The Mentor looked Shay in the eyes, grinding his own teeth. "The operation was delicate, perhaps you-"

"You are shifting the _earth_ itself," Shay growled. "Who are _you_ to decide what city falls next?"

Achilles's stare darkened. He took two steps forward. He had enough. "Get him out of here."

Liam dragged Shay out of the room, kicking and screaming all the way out of the manor and into the snow. Hope slammed the door closed.

Achilles slumped his shoulders and dragged a hand over his face. He looked completely drained. "Was every word out of his mouth the truth, Haytham?"

He nodded. He looked again at Connor. "The Precursor site… as soon as we touched the object inside it…" He shook his head, hiding a shiver. "It crumbled to dust. The church… it had already fallen. Lisbon was falling. We barely escaped with our lives."

But it wasn't entirely Achilles's fault, nor Shay's. It was the Spirit's. She forced their hand.

The Mentor bowed his head and walked behind his desk.

Hope looked at Haytham with undisguised horror. She still thought Shay to be too inexperienced to have a reliable opinion. She would not doubt Haytham's word. "The Precursor sites can really bring that much destruction?"

Once again, he nodded.

Hope stared out of the window, where Shay and Liam were most likely screaming at each other in the snow. "Enough to level a city…"

Achilles took a deep breath and straightened. "Go to your quarters to rest. You've earned it, Haytham - both you and Shay."

* * *

Connor felt someone poking him.

He opened an eye to see a stricken Shay Cormac with a finger poised to poke Connor's nose again. The Irishman motioned outside with his head. He wanted to speak outside.

The time-traveller looked around the room. Being the first and eldest protégé, Haytham had a room all to himself, of which Connor took a darkened corner. Haytham was still asleep, which spoke volumes of Shay's sneaking skills and how many times he had snuck inside that place.

Reluctantly leaving his sleeping mat, he followed Shay outside in the snow.

"What is it?"

"Achilles's not stopping, is he?"

Connor frowned. Did he mean the hunt for Pieces of Eden? "He did not say anything about continuing or stopping it."

Shay licked his lips and stared at the ground. "I see." He closed his eyes. "Then… we have to stop him ourselves."

The time-traveller did not like that tone. "Haytham has warned you not to do anything stupid or rash."

Shay gritted his teeth. "It's too late to do that now. Connor, we can't allow this mad chase for the Precursor sites to continue!" He took a step forward, arms raised as if he wanted to put them on Connor's shoulders. "All- all those souls lost. Those innocents. _Dead_." He shook his head and lowered it. "If we listened to you, instead of Achilles…"

Connor frowned, breathing in the freezing air of January. If Shay had a bit more faith in Achilles's decision-making skills, Connor could convince him to wait and argue with the Mentor when they were both calmer. But Shay was staring at the ground as if it would suddenly open and swallow him whole… and the Irishman wouldn't even mind.

If Connor left him alone for just one second, he would surely do something both stupid and rash. But he couldn't help him in his self-imposed mission…

...Or could he?

They were all worried for Achilles. They were worried he would lead the Brotherhood to its downfall in his mad search for the Pieces of Eden.

It had happened once, when Haytham was the Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite and tore the Brotherhood apart, leaving Achilles as the sole survivor. Connor did not want it to happen again.

If betraying Achilles was the only way he could save the Brotherhood, then so be it.

* * *

 **And that's how the Rogue Retold Arc begins its excruciating part!**


	13. Chapter 12: Betrayal

**I just broke my own heart with this Chapter. Enjoy.**

* * *

 **Chapter 12**

 **Betrayal**

Shay felt guilty enough as it was: he couldn't make Connor do this on his own. Shay had touched the Piece of Eden, Shay had to fix it: bringing the Manuscript far from Achilles, far from both Assassin and Templar hands. Burn it. Destroy it.

But first, he needed to steal it.

The Irishman snuck through the snow and the bushes around the manor. Connor followed him closely, keeping both eyes out to find any hidden danger. They had only one shot at this. They could not fail.

"Stay down."

Shay obeyed Connor's order. He looked up at the manor. There was someone on the highest floor that left so quickly he almost wondered whether it was a trick of the light. But the time-traveller was tense by his side, and he could not deny it. Someone was still awake inside the manor. Maybe even Achilles himself.

But they couldn't turn back now. Shay still heard the screams, just out of his sight. If he dared look behind him, he would surely lose it.

They knew the windows were all closed and locked, so that any intruder would have to make one hell of a ruckus to break in. Wary, the two Assassins approached the door.

It was not locked.

Shay glanced at Connor, silently asking _what the hell?_ The time-traveller shrugged, and _that_ was no help at all. At least Connor went in first and checked the ground floor before returning to Shay, saying, "Come in."

It could be a trap. It was always a possibility with the Assassins, especially Achilles. But Connor was not incompetent by any stretch of his imagination and he would not betray Shay. He had seen Lisbon. He understood.

Even if it _was_ a trap, they could not turn back. Shay took a deep breath, opened the door and snuck inside. The Manuscript was inside Achilles's study, of that he was sure. He had seen Hope bringing it there. He would find it with his Eagle Sight, as Connor called it.

"Find the Manuscript," the future-Assassin whispered. He stood tall, but his whole frame was tense. Grim. "I will watch for any who would stand in your path."

Shay nodded, grateful for his help. He had almost decided to go in alone. Haytham thought Achilles would see reason soon enough, but that would still be too late: he would not help Shay. But Connor had seen the future. He knew what could happen if Achilles kept looking for the Precursor sites. Mentor or not, they couldn't in good conscience allow this to continue.

He padded to Achilles's study. The desk was there. One of its drawers shone gold. Another deep breath. He _had_ to do it. Shay stuck his Hidden Blade in the slit of the drawer. With a quick jerk of his wrist, it opened. The Manuscript.

"There's no turning back now…"

* * *

Achilles was coming upstairs.

Connor had to stop him. He had to. The Brotherhood would fall without his interference, and he would not allow it to happen. That was a promise he intended to keep.

He waited on top of the stairs until his Mentor was withing striking distance and punched him once on the nose. Achilles grunted and lost his balance on the stairs.

Connor shoved him down. His Mentor fell down the stairs, hard, tumbling to their bottom. Shay must have heard the noise. He had better escape, although all windows were locked. Connor didn't want to hurt his Mentor more than he had to.

There was the sound of glass breaking.

Well, at least Shay escaped.

Achilles looked around and over himself, furious, searching for his assailant. Connor stood atop the stairs in silence. His Mentor's gaze swept right over him, and he was ready to face him once more.

But the Mentor didn't try going upstairs again. He dashed for a room - the dining room - to his right and Connor hurried after him.

His Mentor was already outside. Shay was but a dark smudge on the snow, but Achilles had recognized him. "Assassins!" He shouted at the top of his lungs. "Stop him! Stop _Shay_!"

* * *

Shit.

Shay forced himself to run faster. It would be a matter of seconds before he was swarmed by Assassins on all sides. His heart ached at the thought - the Assassins had been his family for nearly seven years, and now they were hunting him as if he were a target. He had betrayed them.

But he could not stop.

Shay sprinted through the snow, through the bushes, over the trees, over the muskets aimed at him and under the fire of mortars raining down on them. Dirt and snow rose and fell with each thundering hit.

"Has Chevalier gone mad?!" he heard someone - an apprentice, maybe, he didn't know - shout. "He'll destroy the manor!"

And kill all of them, Shay added. How Chevalier managed to get the mortars firing so quickly, he didn't know. He didn't care. He had to run faster than all of them. Faster than Kesegowaase, Hope, Liam and Haytham.

What would Connor do now? He had confronted Achilles, briefly, warning him of his presence. But a whole Brotherhood of Assassins? Could he do that? Would he fight Haytham for Shay?

He was thrown back by the shockwave of a mortar shot landing too close. He breathed in the acrid smell of gunpowder and coughed. There were blood and splinters and half a body in the snow. His stomach churned.

Shay scrambled back and bolted.

He looked up, and saw Liam glowing an angry shade of red. He had a pistol in hand and he fired somewhere high in front of Shay. _Boom_! Rocks above him creaked.

More explosions followed. A landslide! He wanted to trap him. Shay barely slipped through unscathed. His breath came out in short gasps. Other mortars. Other screams. He felt the earth shift and rumble under his feet.

"Have you gone mad?" Hope shouted at him. He swallowed a reply. He had no time to worry where it came from.

In the woods - _it wasn't Lisbon, could not be, would never be again_ \- he saw a shadow following him. Kesegowaase. He tore through the trees and the branches and the snow with the speed and focus of a hunter. "You cannot escape!"

There was another shadow, but it was white and blue and it tackled Kesegowaase to the ground. The Assassin went down into the snow with a surprised shout. Connor sprinted so he could run alongside Shay. He was by his side.

Shay drew on his strength to push himself faster.

"Shay!"

He almost stumbled. It was Haytham. He sounded furious. "Stop running this instant!"

The Irishman almost did. But he couldn't do that. He had to keep his breath. Haytham would not understand, even if he tried to explain. He had been in Lisbon, right there with him, but he did not _understand_. He had to take away the Manuscript from Achilles. There would have been no convincing him to stop.

Shay ran out of the cover of the woods and came upon a cliff. Dead end.

He turned around and saw everyone - Achilles, Hope, Kesegowaase, Liam, Haytham, even Chevalier and at least five of his men. They had cornered him.

Liam was pointing his gun at him. "That's enough!"

"Give back the Manuscript, Shay-" Hope was saying, when Haytham cut her off.

"Shay," he growled, though he glanced at Connor as well. "You know as well as I that this is _not_ necessary."

He shook his head. Haytham did not understand. "I will not let it happen again." He had to. "All those souls lost… one more hardly matters."

Shay turned around, walked towards the cliff, towards his _death-_

A shot tore into his back and he fell, freezing into the black depths of the ocean.

* * *

Connor made himself scarce for the following week.

When he did come back, sodden and miserable, Haytham was ready to scream his lungs out at him, to beat him silly until some sense got knocked into that thick head of his.

"Where _were_ you?" he growled, clenching his fists and his jaw. The Assassins had spread far and wide to look for Shay, but he had just _disappeared_. He was sure Connor had something to do with it.

Connor just sat by the bonfire of Haytham's camp. "I was looking for Shay."

"Did you find him? Where did you take him?" He asked through gritted his teeth.

The time-traveller looked ill. His gaze settled on the flames of the camp. "Nowhere," he whispered, and said no more.

Haytham almost said ' _well, you were away for a whole week while everyone panicked, so must have done something',_ but he recognized the pain in his voice and the hesitation in his hunched shoulders. Something terrible had happened.

He sat down. Shay did fall off a cliff, with jagged rocks and freezing water at the bottom. The Assassins spent a sleepless night waiting for dawn, so they could look for Shay… and the Manuscript he stole.

Haytham clenched his fists. "Why did you allow him to do that?"

"No one should ever search for the Pieces of Eden again."

"Was it worth _Shay's life_?" Connor winced, and Haytham pressed on. "You said nothing was worth paying with our lives, yet you sacrificed him for the sole purpose of compromising the Brotherhood."

Connor's eyes flared with indignation as he stood to his full height. "I have _not_ sacrificed him nor have I compromised the Brotherhood."

Haytham's face twisted into a sneer. His friend was dead because of _him_ , and he dared deny it? "No? Then what do you call what happened at the cliff?" He waited a beat. "You stood against Achilles, your own Mentor. Against us. Against _me_. For what?" They were almost chest to chest. "For Achilles to see the error of his way? For Shay to _die_?"

"It was Shay's choice, Haytham." Connor raised his voice to talk over Haytham's protest. "No, I had not foreseen this end. Yes, I wished for that night to have ended differently. But the Brotherhood would have paid a much higher price, had Achilles continued on this path."

What higher price was there but the death of a close friend? "Why didn't you stop him then? We could have-"

"Achilles _nor_ Shay could have been convinced to stop." Connor looked down and sighed before staring again into his eyes. "Shay blamed himself for the earthquake of Lisbon, but Achilles did not believe him."

"He'd have believed _me!_ " Haytham was shouting by now, his chest heaving with each breath. "He'd have believed me, if only you'd given me more _time_! And now _Shay is dead!_ "

Connor took a step back and did not reply. His hands were raised halfway to his chest, as if about to push him away, or put his hands on his shoulders, or hug him. He was still wet, maybe even half-frozen.

Haytham was trembling. He sat down and stabbed at his bonfire with a stick. Connor could have done so much more. He could have saved Shay. But there was no resurrecting the dead now, not without the Manuscript, without the key to the Ankh.

"Go away."

Connor frowned at him, as if he couldn't phantom why Haytham would want him gone. "Haytham-"

" _Don't_." He jabbed a finger in Connor's direction. "I don't want to hear _anything_ from you. Never again."

The time-traveller didn't look about to move.

Indignation filled his lungs, a snarl on his face. "GO AWAY!"

The Assassin flinched and took a few steps back. His wide eyes seemed moist in the light of the fire, as if he were heartbroken. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it and fled into the woods, leaving Haytham alone with his grief.

* * *

It, too, had to be done.

Connor's heart felt heavy with the burden he placed on himself. Haytham wanted nothing to do with him and, in an unpredictable twist of fate, Connor had grown to consider him his son. No wonder then that he suffered so much, since he lied to him.

Shay was not dead.

But if he had told him the truth, their actions would have meant nothing. Achilles would still have looked for the Pieces of Eden. Shay would have suffered harsher nightmares and deeper regrets, with no way to atone; maybe he would have been killed, because Assassins do not look kindly on traitors. The Brotherhood would have fallen.

Connor still had a duty to the Brotherhood. He still cared for its fate and its members. He still followed the Creed.

If the price for it was bearing Haytham's hatred, what was one more sacrifice on top of what he had already suffered?

Connor kept the Manuscript on himself for two whole days before he heard the Spirit's laughter again in his dreams. Each time he heard her, it only fueled his wrath, but provided no target. However, he could not waste energy: Shay was still in danger.

 _You cannot hide what came from Eden,_ she mocked him, and Connor decided to just toss it into the ocean. It had probably worked with the Apple, so there was no reason it wouldn't with something made of paper.

During his week of absence, he focused on bringing Shay somewhere safe to heal.

He had carried Shay to a small village of fishermen. The men had been shocked he was still alive and promptly called their 'doctor'. He took a look at his poor condition, shook his head and told them Shay was beyond saving and only God could help him.

Connor tore the 'doctor's best clothes to shreds. Shay was _not_ beyond saving. He refused to believe otherwise.

So the time-traveller stole bandages, salve, alcohol and every medical-looking tool he could get his hands on and did most of the work himself. Shay was too unconscious to complain about Connor's less than stellar medical abilities. It was barely enough to keep his bones and blood where they should be. Shay needed a real doctor.

Muttering an apology to the fishermen, Connor took off with one of their carriages to Boston.

There, he found a doctor and left Shay in his office.

His reaction would've been hilarious, had Shay not been in so desperate a condition. Though uncertain as to how his new patient came to be there, he still treated him, maybe terrified of angering Shay's invisible sneaky companion. Feeling a bit guilty for giving that good man a fright, Connor left a hundred pounds he had just stolen from some thieves.

A week had passed since the Fall, and another man - Finnegan something - took Shay with him to New York. He shone blue to Connor's Sight, so he knew he meant no harm to Shay and that was enough for the time-traveller.

Done that and spoken to Haytham for the last time, Connor decided to return to his village. He was growing weary anyway, and Haytham thought he had betrayed the Assassins. He didn't want him around. That was a consequence he had to bear for the good of the Brotherhood. He had to keep moving forward.

Was that what his father felt, when he told him they were finished? Was that why he called him _son_ with a voice so soft it almost broke Connor's resolve?

It was January 1756. In barely four months, Connor would be born again.

He wandered through Kanatahséton, recognizing dead friends in young and grinning faces. He saw Kaniehtiio strolling with a soft smile on his lips and a significant bump on her belly. He hid away from Haytham's sight and watched him fuss over his wife, Ratonhnhaké:ton's mother.

He sat outside the longhouse where his parents lived, and heard them speak in hushed voices about their child's future.

"I am sure he'll be a great hunter," his mother said. _I will_ , he wanted to say, but he could not.

His father chuckled. "If he's anything like you, he won't stop at hare and deer."

Kaniehtiio scoffed. She was sure their child would be a boy - "mother's sense," she claimed - and, if history played out the same, she would be right. "If he's anything like _you_ , he'll get himself in big trouble."

"Please." Haytham most likely rolled his eyes. "When did I-"

"The night we met. You walked right into the mercenaries' camp with no support."

"That was one time, only because I needed to see if I could persuade them-"

"And that time you almost ate poisonous berries."

"Now, that was _not_ my fault-"

Kaniehtiio swatted at him. Connor did not see where she hit. "You never hesitate to dive into trouble whenever you see it."

Haytham was surely scowling. "I know what I'm doing."

"Even with the berries?"

"That was a honest mistake."

She laughed. Connor's heart clenched. When had he ever heard his mother laugh like that?

His parents sat - or were they lying side by side, in each other's arms? - in silence for a few minutes. There was a fire burning inside the longhouse, keeping them warm. Connor sat outside in the snow, feeling his fingers get numb and his strength slip. Was it the Spirit's doing again? Or was it the baby growing inside his mother?

"Will you bring him to the Assassins?"

That was a good question. His father was an Assassin married to Kaniehtiio and he knew of his son from the start: what would he do? It was something Connor had always wondered.

Haytham was silent for a while. "If he so chooses, I will. But I won't drag him into this fight, nor will I persuade him to follow in my footsteps."

Oh. Who knew Haytham would have said that? Maybe, just this time, Ratonhnhaké:ton would live a happier life. His mother would not die, his father would be there every step of the way, he would not have to choose between his duty as an Assassin and his choice as a son.

That future - so bright it'd blind him - was worth everything he had done.

* * *

As January bled into February and then March, Kaniehtiio started noticing Haytham's restless nights were weighing on him. During the day, he was kept busy by 'protecting' his wife and his child; but at night, he would try to sleep for a few hours before giving up altogether and scribbling his thoughts on his journal until dawn.

Connor peeked into it, once.

 _I have been plagued by nightmares of Lisboon since that day. Since Shay's death, they have gotten worse: they follow me into my waking hours and show no signs of stopping. I hear children shrieking in the woods, playing - will our son do the same, I wonder - and I hear naught but the screams of Lisbon as it fell. Am I losing my mind?_

Connor did not read further. He decided to keep a closer eye on Haytham and, soon enough, he noticed the signs. The way his whole body tensed when he heard screams. How his fists clenched and his eyes widened as he looked into the bonfire. How fast he would breathe when he heard sounds similar to gunshots.

How could he have been so clueless? Lisbon had become the setting of many of his own nightmares. Shay had almost died to stop it from happening again. Why should Haytham be any different?

"I will always listen to your sorrows," Kaniehtiio whispered one day, "if you choose to share them with me."

And so Haytham did. He spoke of the Precursor site, how a Spirit forced Shay's hand, how the ground shook and how loud the screams sounded in his ears. By the end of it, Connor almost thought he was crying.

"If only we had known it would've happened… we would have never set sail for Lisbon." A sound that could only be a sob escaped Haytham's lips. "The city would still be standing, all those people would still be alive, Shay would…"

Connor's insides lurched. He was familiar with guilt and regret. Hearing Haytham speak through tears made him feel as if he had killed him all over again. If only he had been more convincing in stopping their pursuit of the Precursor site...

Connor could not keep his father in the dark anymore. Haytham had to know everything his own son didn't find the courage to tell him. It would open wounds he could not close, but Haytham had time and people on his side. He would heal.

So he stole paper, ink and quill and set to writing two letters.

One for Haytham.

The other for Shay, so he would not waste his time looking for him.

* * *

On 4th of April 1756, Connor breathed his last where his father's gravestone would never stand.

On the same day, Ratonhnhaké:ton wailed in the arms of both his mother and his father.

* * *

 ***incoherent wailing***


	14. Chapter 13: A Life Begun Anew

**Chapter 13**

 **A Life Begun Anew**

Barry and Cassidy Finnegan were… alright, Shay decided. They surely did nothing to deserve thugs breaking into their house and hurting them.

Shay recognized the men who limped out of the place. They wore the colours of Hope's gangs, the same colours that once meant safety to him. Why would the Brotherhood accept this kind of behaviour? There was no way they didn't know.

There was no way _Shay_ didn't know. And yet...

He clenched his jaw and slowly made his way back to his room with his new (hand-me-downs?) clothes. The Finnegans had been very kind to take care of him. They told him - briefly - that a friend of their (dead) son asked them to and they were more than happy to help. They had gone to Boston - how did he even reach Boston? - and came back with him to New York.

Shay had noticed little holes - so little he wouldn't have noticed them if they were not bleeding - around the gashes on his chest and on his head.

He had _not_ landed lightly at the bottom of the cliff, and he was lucky he had not smashed his face beyond recognition. He had a scar over his right eye, another over his left collarbone and at least other three patches of uneven skin on his back: the rest, apparently, would have no problem healing.

Barry said the bostonian doctor - scared out of his wits because of his sudden appearance - had to remove those outrageously done stitches and redo all of them himself, because whoever brought Shay there had clearly never learnt the fine art of sewing.

At least Connor didn't let him bleed out. That was something he'd have to thank him for.

Shay noticed a letter on his bedpost. He frowned. The Finnegans didn't tell him he had received a letter with no wax seal and signed by-

Connor Kenway.

He squinted. There was no mistaking the handwriting, nor the words. It was signed Connor Kenway. Connor. _Kenway_.

Haytham had a sister on the other side of the world who chose to keep the surname Scott. He had no known brothers, uncles or cousins. His father was dead. The only Connors they knew were Davenport - dead at seven years of age - and Time-travelling Ghost Connor, who had no reason to call himself Kenway except if he were related to Haytham.

Shay sat on the bed and opened the letter.

 _._

 _To Shay Patrick Cormac,_

 _If you are reading this letter after 4th April 1756, I have already died._

 _I am writing to you on 1st April. This letter cannot be seen by others but you and Haytham. You may do as you wish with it, because it is a confession of all I have kept hidden and I hope it explains the reason I acted so during these years we have spent together._

.

What he read later was the wildest story he had ever heard of, and the worst part was that it explained so _much_ about Connor's reluctance to reveal his past, to speak of the Brotherhood's future and his family.

A purge, he wrote, the greatest and most devastating he had ever heard. It was hard for Shay to imagine that, in a handful of years, every single Assassin outpost and headquarter would be destroyed and every informant of the Assassins would lie dead. And that Haytham Kenway could have been a Templar Grandmaster whom his Assassin son Connor would have had to kill.

That path was one best left untraveled.

The letter also spoke of a Spirit that had forced Shay's hand in Lisbon, which he did not remember at all. He recalled Connor suggesting them to leave, Haytham asking what the pointy thing was, and… nothing. There was a blank between that and grabbing the Piece of Eden that made his skin crawl.

The Pieces of Eden could mess with his memory? It should have been no wonder, after hearing of mind-controlling Apples and destroying things that keep the earth together.

Shay shook his head. Better not to think about that. He had clothes to put on - he noticed the not-so-subtle crosses here and there, aye - and some criminals to track down and deal with.

At least the Manuscript would do no harm to anyone at the bottom of the ocean.

* * *

Kaniehtiio and Ratonhnhaké:ton - their son, who shared Connor's name - had fallen asleep, and Haytham found himself pacing restlessly in the longhouse. It came as no surprise to him, after his depressingly long streak since January.

After his birth, Kaniehtiio wanted their son to have a name to fit in with the tribe. Haytham had nothing to say about that, but the name… she said it would have been a surprise, and it had. Just not in the way she had thought.

That was Connor's name.

Haytham almost argued with his wife, still wet with blood and after-birth things he was extremely reluctant to touch, that their son shouldn't have that name. Thinking of Connor every time he called his son made his betrayal - and his absence - burn so much stronger.

But her eyes, the way she held their son, her relieved whispering (cooing, really)… Haytham didn't have the heart to argue with her.

So Ratonhnhaké:ton it was. Their son.

He smiled as he watched over them. They looked so peaceful. His wife was exhausted after so many hours of childbirth and so much blood loss, but she was still alive and had almost recovered and they'd raise their son together. His family was alive and well.

But still, Haytham found no peace.

Lisbon still rang in his ears. Chevalier's shot - it was _him_ who shot Shay in the back - still played in his mind. And Connor… he didn't know how to reconcile the burning bite of Connor's betrayal to the lingering regret of sending him away.

The time-traveller followed his request. He went away, doing who knows what, because Haytham told him to.

But now, six months after their last meeting, when his son was barely two months old, Haytham found himself missing his advice and the comfort he gave him as a child, asking nothing in return.

He shook his head. Connor was not there. Shay was dead. The Assassins spread all over the east coast to find the Manuscript and Shay's body. Haytham… Haytham had needed time to think, to rest, to stay with his family, and Achilles let him.

Haytham took his journal, ink and quill from his satchel, which hang just by their bedside. He would make do with the pale moonlight and the light of the torches.

A paper slipped from the pages.

He grabbed it just before it touched the ground. It had been wedged between pages he never opened, stuck for who knew how long, but who dared put something in his journal? Who dared _open_ it? Even Kaniehtiio knew better-

It was a letter signed Connor Kenway.

At first Haytham thought it was impossible. There was no Connor Kenway, Connor was not a Kenway, and Connor was not in the village. But he had seen a time-travelling ghost, a spiky thing that held the earth together, an evil Spirit that could force people to do its bidding and a glowing floating bridge, so maybe nothing was truly impossible by that point.

 _._

 _To Haytham Edward Kenway,_

 _I am sure I have already died by the time you are reading this letter._ _I apologize for all the harm I have brought upon you, though I know my words will never be enough._

 _However, I realize my silence will hurt you worse than any word of mine ever had. There is much I should have told you that I was too much of a coward to reveal. In this letter, I will tell you the whole truth about my past._

.

It was Connor's calligraphy, of that he was dead sure. There were smudges and ink drops here and there, as if Connor couldn't quite bring himself to write any of that, but forced himself to anyway.

What he read next explained… everything.

Why he was so determined to take him away from Birch. Why he taught him his language. Why he was so uncomfortable around Kaniehtiio. Why he was so reluctant to reveal anything about his own future.

Connor killed Haytham Kenway, his own father… and Templar Grandmaster, apparently. The same Grandmaster he had worked with and whose death weighed heavily on him.

Haytham's hands were shaking. Connor hid so _much_ from him, from the moment they spoke on that ship crossing the English Channel. He was doing _nothing_ out of goodness of his heart or whatever bullshit Haytham had thought when he was ten and lonely. Connor was doing everything out of guilt.

Because Connor had killed him. " _My father died because of me,"_ he had said, because _of course_ he would skirt around the subject of family as if it were a rabid dog. How could he have admitted to Haytham's face he had killed him and went back trying to undo his own actions?

Actions he had evidently grown to regret enough to change the course of Haytham's life at the cost of his own.

He took a deep breath, put the invisible-to-everyone letter back in his journal and gripped its consumed leather cover. Connor still did all he could to help him, he reminded himself, whether it was out of guilt or not. How would Haytham have reacted, had Connor just… come up to him, and told him he killed him, his own _father_? He would have lost it.

He should have noticed, really. Connor kept dropping hints: British on his father's side, Kanienkehaka on his mother's. Haytham would have been a Templar, Connor had a (Grandmaster) Templar weighing on his conscience, he always stuck by Haytham's side. Connor knew so much about Kaniehtiio… including her death.

His grip tightened. That was something he wanted to prevent at all costs. His wife… his son… Connor's future will never come to pass. Haytham would do everything in his power to steer history in the right direction.

That, he promised.

* * *

Colonel Monro didn't seem like a bad man. He did show up a bit red in Shay's Eagle Sight - _danger if provoked, stay on guard_ \- but… he was the one who told the Finnegans to take care of Shay. He had to be someone either very goodwilled, or incredibly manipulative.

He hoped he hadn't made the connection between Hidden Blades and Assassins, though that was unlikely. The Finnegans' dead son had Templar crosses, Monro worked with their son: hence, Monro was most likely a Templar. It did not bode well for Shay.

But still… he was far from the image of power-hungry greedy despicable Templars the Assassins painted them as.

It hurt to think about the Assassins. Everyone still thought he was dead, Haytham included. Connor made sure of that before he died. He needed a funeral, a proper one, for all the help and advice he had given them.

But there was no time for that.

Reality slapped Shay in the face soon enough. Hope was letting the gangs run and ruin New York. The British - if Colonel Monro was their standard of leadership - wanted to help the city, to make it so much better than a haven for criminals.

He ended up saving Christopher Gist from criminal justice (wasn't that a strange thing), getting back his Morrigan and needing a first mate.

"Tell me, Shay, do you have a first mate?" Gist asked, a sort of smirk on his lips, but not unkind. He was just… eager. Not boot-licking eager, fortunately, but more that's-my-dream kind of eager.

It still picked at an open wound in Shay's heart. Liam had been his first mate the longest, but when he was busy on some other mission Haytham (and Connor) took his place as if it was only natural. Haytham seemed to enjoy spending time together, all three of them, out at sea.

He shook his head. "They… they're long gone." Although Haytham and Liam were both alive and most likely looking for a body they would not find.

Gist nodded. "Then I apply for the position, captain!"

"Welcome aboard," he said, shaking hands with him. If Shay's smile was a bit wan, Gist did not comment on it.

* * *

Shay's loyalty kept being shaken in the next months.

Monro and Gist were not bad. They wanted to see the Colonies flourishing, happy, prosperous. Pretty and admittedly convincing words. They believed in everything they said. But how could they think for the good of the people? They… they sided with the _Templars_.

As if that confusion was not enough, Le Chasseur confessed the gangs' - the _Assassins'_ \- plans for New York.

Poisonous gas. How could Hope, Liam, _Haytham_ be alright with it?

Either way, Shay could not stand idly by while the Assassins killed half New York.

* * *

"Our poison supplies have been sabotaged, Mentor."

Achilles frowned at Liam. "Explain."

The younger man put his hands behind his back and straightened. "Our poison supplies… have been blown up. Thirty of our men have been killed." He shook his head. "Many bodies were ruined beyond recognition by explosions."

That was a worrying hindrance of their plans. The Mentor's frown deepened as he glanced between the papers on his desk and his second protégé. "Do we have any information on who it might be?"

"No, Mentor."

"Hmm." This was not a good sign, but they had other ways to drive the British out of New York. Assassinating higher ups always did the job, though it was a bit conspicuous. Especially since there were Templars among them. "Focus on finding and killing anyone of Captain rank and above. Even the Hydra can't move with all its heads severed."

Liam nodded and stopped himself from grabbing a piece of paper. "Should I inform Haytham as well?"

Achilles lowered his gaze and considered. Haytham had looked a bit numb after Shay's betrayal, and had asked to go back to his wife for some time off. He told Achilles he'd be ready for any mission, but his unusual tenseness - for lack of a better word - meant he needed to stay away for more time than he'd admit.

This sabotage didn't qualify as enough, in Achilles's eyes.

The Mentor shook his head. "Not yet."

* * *

Shay had spent a whole year working with the Templars, picking at Assassins' gangs, boarding French ships and financing some rebuilding in New York and around River Valley.

It assuaged some of his guilt, at least, though he was stirring trouble and the Assassins would soon investigate and find him, and what would Liam and Haytham think? Would they hunt him on Achilles's orders? That possibility became more real each time he directly opposed the Brotherhood.

Especially when he found Colonel Monro - definitely a Templar - needed help to get to safety, away from French troops and angry natives. There would be either Chevalier or Kesegowaase, and Shay admitted (to himself, since nobody asked) he'd gladly punch Chevalier in the face. Kesegowaase, not so much; but he'd still do it.

Colonel Monro was a good man, and they wanted him killed. If push came to shove, Shay would kill them: his regret would be worth saving Monro's life.

When Gist told him there was a Templar Grandmaster who would - one day, maybe - make him an official Templar, Shay had tried pushing for a bit more of information. He didn't get much about the man himself, but it was better than nothing.

"Well, there had been some unrest after Grandmaster Birch's assassination back in Europe." Gist shrugged. "Many Master Templars wanted his place, so there's been some poisoning and some stabbing - you know how it is - and someone by name Jonathan Woods took over the British branch. He sent his protégé over here and he's taken reins of every Templar around, really."

"What's his name?"

"Alexander Stewart." Gist smiled. "Deadly as can be."

Surely, the Grandmaster had some other qualities. "Something else I should know about him?"

His first mate waved his hand at him a bit. "Grandmaster's kind of told us not to tell you anything about him till you became a Templar." He shrugged. "Sorry."

"I see." Shay would just have to discover for himself the man who took Haytham's place in this... timeline. He scrunched up his nose. It was plain weird to think of Haytham as a Grandmaster Templar, not to mention uncomfortable.

He steered his _Morrigan_ to Marais Rocheux and hoped he'd arrive in time to save Monro.

* * *

Haytham was so proud to see Ratonhnhaké:ton walking on his own.

Alright, it was only sort of an awkward stumble towards his arms, but Haytham was still filled to bursting with pride at his son's accomplishment.

" _You did very well, my son,"_ he cooed at him. Ratonhnhaké:ton giggled at his father. Oh God he was so _squishy_. " _But of course, you already know that, don't you?"_ Haytham kissed his forehead and his smile widened at his son's laughter. " _I'm so proud of you."_

He heard faint rustling behind him and grinned at the newcomer. " _Ziio, our son just walked! His first steps!"_

Kaniehtiio smiled at him - a bit indulgently, if he said so himself, but he was too happy to care. " _He inherited your stubbornness. I was sure he'd soon walk on his own."_

" _He got your stubbornness, too."_ Haytham sounded petulant even to his own ears.

His wife laughed, and their son laughed and sort of stumbled into his mother's arms. She caught him and kneeled in front of him. " _Ratonhnhaké:ton, are you hungry?"_

" _Hungry!"_ Their son clapped his chubby hands and smiled at the prospect of food.

Haytham was sure his face would split, so wide and permanent was his smile. This was so… normal. He had seen his son grow from a newborn into a toddler, sometimes keeping half the village awake with his cries - that had not been fun, but it was worth it - and trying to crawl away towards other kids.

Kaniehtiio had just taken Ratonhnhaké:ton into her arms when they heard the thundering hooves of a horse in the village.

They left the longhouse and found Liam on the back of a nervous chestnut horse.

"Liam?" He looked nervous, too, but there was something angry about the crease between his brows. "What happened?"

The Assassin nearly growled. "Shay happened," he spat. He jerked his head towards the woods outside the village. "You need to come back to Davenport, now."

Shay? Haytham didn't see how a dead body could 'happen'. "You found Shay?"

Liam looked only angrier at hearing that. "Oh, we did. I'll tell you everything on the way."

The man would not reveal anything more than that, and did not get off his horse to greet anyone. It was clearly an emergency and Haytham had to leave immediately. So Haytham nodded and told him he'd go back to the longhouse to gather his things - and change into his Assassin clothes, instead of the leathers he'd resorted to wearing some time before his son was born - while Liam could rest after his travel.

The Assassin jerked his head down. Haytham took that as assent and went inside the longhouse.

Both Kaniehtiio and Ratonhnhaké:ton looked at him in concern. " _Rakeni go?"_ his son asked, pouting.

" _Hén."_ He gathered his Assassin clothes from the travel pack he had taken from Davenport more than a year ago. He noticed his son's lips trembling. " _But Rakeni will come back soon, alright?"_

Kaniehtiio frowned at him, as if disapproving of his lying so brazenly to their son. She still managed a smile for Ratohnhaketon. " _Your Rakeni will be very busy for some time. He has people to protect even outside Kaneseton."_

Ratohnhaketon's eyes widened. He had never seen anything beyond the wooden walls. " _Outside?"_

" _He's very strong and brave,"_ she explained softly, while Haytham changed his clothes. " _So strong and brave that others have heard of him, and ask for his help."_

Haytham was sure his son would be soon worshipping him. He raised an eyebrow at Kaniehtiio, his cheeks burning with embarrassment, but his wife just smiled at him. She knew how this was making him squirm, and she enjoyed every second of it.

Kaniehtiio, still with their son in her arms, stepped up to him and kissed him. "Do come back alive, my love."

Haytham smiled at her and kissed his family - his son on his forehead, his wife on her lips. "I will."

Said that and prepared a second horse for him to ride, the two Assassins left Kanateséton with haste.

* * *

Haytham arrived at Davenport manor on 20th August 1757.

What Achilles and Liam told him was unbelievable, but Kesegowaase would never tell a lie so outrageous. He was a man of his word, at least, and knew Shay's face enough to recognize him.

But Shay, siding with the _Templars_ \- saving one of _them_? Shooting a small barrel of gunpowder in Kesegowaase's face? Haytham had a hard time wrapping his mind around that.

"Shay has also freed an Oneida tribe that had sided with the British," Achilles said, scoffing. "We need to make haste to kill Monro and his new lapdog."

Haytham frowned. "Since when did you capture an Oneida tribe?"

Achilles and Liam exchanged a glance.

"Why did you capture a tribe?" He insisted. Attacking British he understood, but… a whole village? Filled with innocents? His gut churned. "Did you hope I would have never known of it?"

Achilles shook his head. "The only other solution was killing them."

"I hope the reason you did not go through with that plan was because you'd have broken the first tenet of the Creed, and not because you'd have lost allies among the other tribes."

Neither of them spoke a word.

Haytham clenched his fists and tried - probably failed - at keeping a neutral expression. By a strategical standpoint, killing every tribe sided with the British was the best option: but Haytham kept thinking of Kaniehtiio and Ratohnhaketon and how their lives would be cut short if their burning longhouse fell on their heads. Capturing them was a compromise that, honestly, made him both sigh in relief and frown.

(Shay was also no lapdog, contrary to what some other Assassins believed.)

Haytham breathed in and out. It… It wasn't the right time to discuss the Creed. "What information do we have on Monro?"

* * *

It was 3rd November when Kesegowaase, finally recovered from his injury and angrier than ever, led his native allies to an assault on Fort Frederick, in Albany.

Hope had lent some men, but did not leave New York: Shay had dealt some heavy blows to their activities there, so she stayed there to further the Brotherhood's goals with Liam's help. Chevalier was nowhere to be found. In case Kesegowaase could not kill Monro and find some information about Templar plans, Haytham would search the Colonel's house.

It was very simple, compared to other missions he had successfully completed on his own. Haytham had almost raised an eyebrow at his Mentor, but he could understand his reluctance to give him a central role: he had no idea if his body was still in top condition (it was) and if he could deal killing blows with hardly a thought (he could).

Kesegowaase and Hope's men had waited in the forest for the perfect moment, when the redcoats switched between night and day patrol; when they were either about to sleep or had just woken up.

Haytham leisurely strolled through the town, knowing that soon the peace of dawn would be broken by the shots of muskets and the smell of fire and gunpowder.

Chaos erupted in a matter of seconds.

First, it was the shots: people warily looked towards the fort from the streets and the windows. Then the screams started, and a woman was scooping up her child to run faster and a man took up his musket to defend his home and another ran to the church to sound the bells, as if the fire starting up from the fort was not alarming enough.

 _It's not Lisbon,_ he reminded himself, and forced himself to keep walking as the crowd around him fled into a panic.

Haytham knew Monro was at the fort, rallying their defense. He also knew where he lived when he wasn't holing up in a fort and he had no trouble in silently dispatching the three redcoats inside his house.

Having hidden the three corpses in some bushes nearby, Haytham started rummaging through Monro's desk drawers. There were lots of letters and even some poetry, but little of use to the Assassins.

He found two letters addressed to a Grandmaster Alexander Stewart - and his odd thought was _so this is the man who replaced me this time -_ and three from the Grandmaster that were in code, so Haytham didn't know what they were about. Maybe the Manuscript, which nobody would ever find because Connor had tossed it in the ocean.

Haytham still took them and put them in one of his pouches.

The front door slammed open.

Haytham settled into a dark corner of the study and waited. He dearly hoped it was not Shay. After everything Connor had done, he still found himself reluctant to kill Shay, traitor or not.

It was Monro.

He was clutching at his left shoulder while one of his soldiers helped him along on his left. They were most likely looking for the medical supplies under the desk. Haytham waited until they had their backs on him before driving his Hidden Blade between the soldier's ribs and forcing the Colonel to stand wobbly on his own.

"Assassin," he hissed, stumbling back, "come to finish your friend's work?"

Haytham shook his head. "It was not my mission to complete. But since you're here, I'll have to take over my friend's duties." He walked behind the desk, pulled the chair from there and shoved it behind Monro's knees so he was forced to sit. "I can make your last minutes either very painful or very brief, depending on your answers. Are you still looking for the Manuscript?"

Monro tightened his grip on his shoulder and said nothing.

"You do know it now lies at the bottom of the ocean, right?"

The Colonel's eyes widened minutely. So Shay either didn't know, or had not told this to the Templars.

"It would be a shame if your brethren were to waste resources on trying to find that." Haytham shook his head and took a dagger from a sheath behind his back. "What are your plans for these fair lands?"

Monro glanced at the dagger before his eyes narrowed on Haytham. "Purging them of the criminal filth you keep running on their streets," he said, though his voice hitched somewhat. That deep gash on his shoulder must have been painful.

Hope could control her men better, he supposed. Haytham stabbed Monro in the right thigh. The Templar suppressed a pained shout. "That much I know. But there must be something _else-_ " he twisted his dagger, eliciting a grunt, "you're not telling me, Colonel."

It took a few seconds for Monro to stop gritting his teeth enough to speak. "You want to know of Shay."

Haytham very carefully hid his emotions behind his unnervingly calm smile. "Among other things, yes. What have you done to him?"

"What have _you_ done to him?" the Templar rebutted. "At the first sign of him questioning the righteousness of your orders you discarded him-"

The Assassin put a bit (a lot) more pressure on his dagger. "I've been to Lisbon as well." His smile disappeared, replaced instead by a condescending look. "Never assume, Colonel, that we are incapable of independent thought. What have you done to Shay to make him help you?"

"We showed him the truth of your methods," he uttered through gritted teeth, just as Haytham heard someone's frantic footsteps in the house. He yanked his dagger out of Monro's thigh and opened one of the large windows of the study.

" _Ó:nen ki' wáhi,_ Colonel." Haytham jumped through the window and fled through the burning city - _not Lisbon -_ into the woods.

* * *

Shay found Colonel Monro bleeding out in his study.

He ran up to him and knew just by the amount of blood alone that only a miracle would save him, even if his wounds - when did he get that hole in his thigh? - did not get infected and he stitched them flawlessly.

"Colonel, what happened?"

The man sort of nodded at the open window. "...Left," he muttered.

"Haytham." Kesegowaase told him so. What did the Brotherhood gain from interrogating Monro? What did they gain from his death? Did Haytham ignore the words he had told Shay just after his wedding? Shay's lips curled at the thought. _No one_ should kill without a proper purpose.

"...He cared…" Monro's eyes almost fluttered closed, but he forced himself to take his Templar ring off his finger. "For you," he whispered, and Shay grasped his hand and the offered ring as George Monro's life slipped away.

Shay closed his eyes and mourned the death of a good man.

* * *

Days later, Shay stood at the end of a table in a dark room of Fort Arsenal, surrounded by - soon enough - fellow Templars. He carefully unsheathed his sword and dagger and laid them on the table. A voice rose from the other end of the table, shrouded in darkness.

"Do you swear to uphold the principles of our Order and all that for which we stand?"

Order, purpose, direction. Peace. "I do."

"And to never share our secrets nor divulge the true nature of our work?"

Hide in plain sight. "I do."

"And to do so from now until death, whatever the cost?"

He would bear the burden of atonement regardless of any oath. "I do."

"Then we welcome you into our fold, Brother." The Grandmaster stepped into the light, his blond hair nearly glinting in the candlelight. He walked around the table and the other Templars, his boots echoing in the room, and slipped Monro's ring on Shay's own finger.

The Grandmaster took a step back and raised his smooth chin. "You are now a Templar, harbinger of a new world. May the Father of Understanding guide us."

"May the Father of understanding guide us," all of them chorused in the room's dim candlelight.

* * *

 **Ó:nen ki' wáhi: Goodbye**


	15. Chapter 14: Trouble Home

**Chapter 14**

 **Trouble Home**

Achilles took one of Monro's letters in his hand. "This is a code I have already seen," he said, although he shook his head. "But I'm afraid I don't remember it well enough to decipher it."

"Who can decipher it then?" Haytham had just gone back to Davenport strangely un-pursued, and reported Monro and Kesegowaase's deaths. The Colonel's last words still rattled in the back of his mind, though he paid them as little attention as he could.

His Mentor put his hands on his desk and leaned on it. He glared at the five letters as if his anger alone would make them blurt out the answer. "I'll soon find out," he groused. "You may go, Haytham."

The Assassin didn't move.

Fire crackled in the hearth nearby, its flames harmlessly licking the air. A far cry from Albany and Lisbon, Haytham knew that – his woolen coat, though heavy on his shoulders, didn't quite shield him from the frigid frost of early December.

 _We showed him the truth of your methods…_

"If it isn't much trouble, I have some questions."

Achilles raised his head and looked at his protégé. "What do you wish to discuss?"

"About our methods." Haytham resisted the urge to cross his arms over his chest. "We have common criminals in droves and use them to control cities, correct? A brief walk through New York is enough to see we're not controlling them well _enough_." His mouth twitched into a disgusted sneer. "Those outlaws scare people indiscriminately and it's just luck that the British army isn't sieging our headquarters already. We ought to do something about them."

Achilles straightened and walked around his desk to get near him. "Every set of eyes and ears counts in this war, Haytham. The Templars have gained enough power among the upper ranks of the British army that we can't rely solely on the French or the tribes." He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Everyone on this land has killed at least once. It wasn't that big of a step to contact the underworld of the east coast. As for our control over them, Hope is working on that as we speak. Are you suggesting we give up this advantage over the Templars?"

Haytham shook his head. "I suggest we make ourselves scarcer. Headquarters with our _orange_ flag high in the sky and our 'contacts' doing whatever they please in the light of day are only detrimental. We work in the dark to serve the light, don't we?"

Achilles narrowed his eyes at him.

Haytham stared back, daring him to deny it.

Eventually, his Mentor looked down and nodded. "'Work in the dark', indeed. Anything else?"

"The poison production needs to be hidden better, as well." Poisonous gas still wasn't something Haytham agreed to. Civilians could inhale it accidentally and they might as well have sliced their throats themselves. "Shay killed thirty gang members and destroyed many tanks of poison without leaving a trace. If you still plan on using gas on the redcoats, we need to keep everything less in the open."

"I have already seen to it." Achilles crossed his arms over his chest. "Any other suggestions?"

Haytham couldn't help but purse his lips. "The tribes must be left alone; especially now that Kesegowaase is dead. There are still innocents living inside their villages. Threatening them will only push them to the Templars' side."

"The Oneida have already chosen their side," Achilles said. "They are our enemies."

"Threatening innocents is not the Assassins' way." How could Achilles not see that?

His Mentor closed the distance between them. They were almost chest to chest. "Letting culprits and traitors run free to thwart the Brotherhood's plans is not, either. Or would you rather let countless Jamie Blaire roam the streets?"

Haytham tensed his shoulders at the mention of that traitor. Achilles knew he struck a sore spot to make… what point? That the tribes siding with the British could easily be enough to delay their plans? That Shay was on the same level as Jamie Blaire?

Either way, he gritted his teeth. "No, Mentor."

Achilles nodded and went back to his desk. "You're dismissed, Haytham."

The Assassin resisted the urge to stomp out of the room as if he were still twelve and surrounded by two strangers in an unknown house.

Whatever changed Achilles into the man Connor had known must have been a real eye-opener - one that needed to happen sooner rather than later, or the Brotherhood would be in grave danger indeed.

* * *

Shay stared suspiciously at the glass in his hand.

"It's not poisoned, Master Cormac." To prove his point, the Grandmaster sipped the burgundy contents of his own glass, which had been poured by the same bottle. He smirked.

The ex-Assassin wasn't convinced.

He brought the glass to his lips anyway. He didn't fear it was poisoned (much), but a bottle of this Italian wine was worth at least an eye and Shay had been drinking cheap alcoholics since… well, since forever. Money was to be spent on weapons, clothes and the _Morrigan._

He tipped his glass and couldn't help but scrunch up his face. It was sweet, almost too much so. The only time he had drunk something as saccharine was when a whole crate of sugar had fallen into the Morrigan's last water supplies more than a year ago.

It had not been a fun experience.

(The face Haytham did had been hilarious, though.)

Alexander's smirk widened at his expression. "I see it's not to your taste."

Would it be too rude if he said yes? Shay shook his head. "I'm just not used to it, sir."

"So it seems." The Grandmaster sipped his wine and put his half-empty glass on the table to his right. He straightened in his red armchair and Shay did the same by reflex. "Tell me about your work for the Assassins: where they are, how they operate, who are those we should deal with as soon as possible."

Everyone, everything - all was to be laid to waste.

Everything he said now would be accepted as truth, now that he had finally proved his loyalty. Each Assassin contact he listed would be a target. Each Assassin hideout would be besieged and occupied or razed to the ground.

Could he do it? Could he see it through?

Could he allow Connor's future to come to pass?

"...Their main base is in Davenport," Shay said, "but it's rare to find all of them there at the same time." He resisted the urge to put his face in his hands, instead pursing his lips. "Even if Achilles were to die, Liam or Haytham would take over."

The Grandmaster furrowed his brows. "Haytham Kenway is working for Davenport?"

Reluctantly, Shay nodded.

"Despite what happened in Lisbon?"

The Irishman's innards clenched. He had mentioned it to Gist - probably? - when he was deeper in his cups than his quartermaster. Monro, too, had wanted to know what caused him to break away from the Assassins.

Feeling guilt and betrayal raging in his mind, Shay nodded again.

(At least Connor made sure to stop their mad search for Precursor Artifacts.)

Stewart narrowed his eyes and hummed. When it was clear he would say no more on the matter, the ex-Assassin continued.

"They have bases in River Valley, New York, Boston, Philadelphia and North Atlantic. A small fleet too - for smuggling, mostly. The _Gerfaut_ and the _Experto Crede_ bring enough firepower to give the _Morrigan_ a run for her money though."

Shay breathed in and out. Now he needed to be careful… "With Kesegowaase dead, most tribes won't follow them anymore."

"Are there any who will, regardless?"

"...They don't have the means or the wish to fight in this war." Breathe. Just _breathe_. "There are tribes… who decided to stay neutral, should the Assassins keep protecting them."

The Grandmaster hummed. His brown-eyed, narrowed stare made him think of the calm before an unforgiving storm. Of the not-so-inconspicuous circle of little stones marking the silent passing of a man yet to be.

"What if the Assassins cannot hold their part of the bargain?"

Ziio would surely kill all of them. Or try to, anyway. "They'd take a side. I…" Shay tried not to tense his shoulders too much. "I can convince them to side with the British Army, sir."

A slight tilt of his head. Another hum. "All in due time, Master Cormac. There's still this Brotherhood of theirs to topple."

Shay nodded and tried not to breathe out in relief.

* * *

Haytham knocked the recruit to the side. She toppled to the dusty ground with a curse cut short.

For Heaven's sake...

He scoffed, his lips curling in displeasure. "Don't lunge if your opponent still has their balance. Don't attack mindlessly. You're just tiring yourself out."

The young woman glared at him through sweaty black hair, each straight lock plastered to her face. Her gasps condensed in white puffs, as if she were a dragon ready to breathe fire down on him. A fearsome sight if he ever saw one… and if he hadn't just tested how shoddy her swordplay was.

"Get up and begin again."

Haytham twirled his sword twice before she staggered to her feet. Her dark eyes were like deep chasms gouged by furious rapids, like smoldering ashes igniting again in her soul.

They clashed.

An attempted slash to the side. He parried it and forced her sword down with his own. The recruit nearly followed her weapon to the ground. Tsk, pathetic…

Haytham elbowed her in the stomach.

She doubled over with a muffled cry and the Assassin knocked her back with his shoulder.

The woman staggered back towards the other recruit he was supposed to train.

Anger seeped into the cracks of his mind, but he ignored it, instead biting down on any scathing remarks. How was he supposed to teach swordplay when they lacked the basics they should have known since they first grabbed a sword?

Their problem wasn't lack of attention or practice. Haytham had noticed unbalanced stances and clumsy attacks in both of them – identical mistakes. Whoever had been their instructor had never held a sword right in their entire life. "Who taught you two _anything_ about swordplay?"

The other woman – red hair, red hair…? – shuffled her feet. "Master Vonkert, sir."

Gerrit Vonkert, the terror of all inns. A most excellent example of how _not_ to wield a sword.

Haytham _almost_ pinched the bridge of his nose.

Almost.

He put his sword back in its sheath instead, as did (sullenly) the woman... Ellen? Ellenia. Ellenia Greek. Whoever saddled her with that name must be very proud of their pun.

"What else were you taught?" Surely, they did something else other than make the first swordsmen in history roll in their own graves?

The redhead scratched her freckled cheek. "Mistress Jensen taught us how to handle…" Her already wide eyes nearly popped out of her sockets as she hunched her shoulders. "Qual era la parola per coltelli…?"

Laura Monteforti. Presumably of Irish descent, born and raised in an Italian orphanage, came to the Colonies about four months ago with her adoptive father of Assassin alignment. Skittish like a startled doe. "Knives and daggers are different, Miss Monteforti."

She flushed and shuffled her feet again. "...Daggers. I meant daggers." A pause. "Mistress Jensen taught us how kill in silence. Master Vonkert taught us how to blend in, in Boston."

That much he had seen. The duo stalked around the woods of Davenport somewhat unseen and eavesdropped on the untrained henchmen of Hope's gangs - not an impressive feat, but enough to show a glimmer of potential and motivation. Or boredom.

Haytham considered the two Assassins-wannabe in front of him.

Ellenia looked as if something foul died in her boot. Her temporary gray-and-blue vest was still salvageable despite all its tears, and her anger would probably carry her far - if it was channeled properly. There was potential for tremendous improvement, but she couldn't allow her own temper to control her actions.

Laura found her boots incredibly fascinating. Eager to please, but too quick to withdraw. Some self-confidence and courage would do her good, as well as a proper instructor. She had little drive to kill. Either she found grit and purpose, or she would make a poor Assassin – a scout or a spy, maybe, but an Assassin had to kill sooner or later.

They fidgeted under his silent stare.

Did Achilles find it hilarious to give him such incompetent recruits? Was it a punishment? Or a way to keep him in Davenport?

"Kenway!"

For the love of…! "About time you returned, Chevalier."

The Frenchman strode up to him. A whole year apart had not been enough to reduce Haytham's desire to pummel his damnably smug face black and purple.

They shook hands reluctantly, just to keep up a pretence of cordiality in the upper echelon of the Brotherhood. He raised an eyebrow at the two recruits behind Haytham, but there was a smirk on his face, so arrogant and pleased that the Assassin wanted to wipe it off with a goddamn axe.

"I doubt you went out of your way just to greet me," he dryly stated.

Chevalier's lips turned down the slightest bit. "The Mentor wants you back to the Manor."

His thoughts soured at the mention. His argument with Achilles - barely a week ago - had not left him in a good mood. The future of the Brotherhood hinged on their Mentor, but he refused to see the error(s) of his way and it was _maddening_ trying to reason with him.

He had to fight every step of the way to change Achilles's approach to most problems – it didn't help that his Mentor justified his orders with callous comparisons between chess pieces and people, argued how much _better_ his own method was or just pulled rank on him to shut down all reason.

Haytham turned to the two women. "Tail a group of mercenaries around here," he snapped. Laura flinched. Ellenia's eyebrow twitched. "Don't get seen until I return."

They nodded and hurried down to the port.

Haytham trudged after Chevalier towards Davenport Manor, scowling.

* * *

"Absolutely _not_."

"You don't make the decisions, Haytham."

His hands itched to swipe the goddamned thing out of Achilles's grasp and chuck it in the fireplace. "That _thing_ ," he jabbed a finger at the offending book, "spells only destruction for us and the entire world. Thousands of innocents would die _again_ , in vain."

Achilles's brow creased.

A sneer twisted Chevalier's face. "After all the trouble I've gone through to recover that damné Manuscript, you'd waste this chance to-"

"There'll be _no chance_ to do _anything_!" Pain squeezed Haytham's heart in its vicious grip. Why was Chevalier so bullheaded he ignored what happened in Lisbon? "Those Sites do not have what we're after. They-"

"They would be dangerous, if they fell in Templar hands." Achilles narrowed his eyes at both of them, gripping the battered Manuscript tighter. "Haytham, our priority is to find the Apple of Eden – when we have it, the Templars will flee."

Haytham's breath stopped.

How… How could he…?

How could their Mentor bet the fate of the Colonial Brotherhood on- on _magical_ relics?

He swallowed. "Achilles," he whispered, "betting the future of the whole Brotherhood on an ancient artifact is tantamount to suicide. If we interfere with those Precursor Sites again, there'll be no telling how many more innocents will die."

"What do you _suggest_ we do, then?" Chevalier snapped. His hand rested – unconsciously? – on the hilt of his sword. Haytham mirrored him. "Let the Templar dogs find them first? Jeopardize our hold in the Colonies?"

Haytham's mouth twisted into a grimace. At least _they_ were listening to Shay, since he didn't leave them. "Better than killing innocents."

Chevalier growled oaths under his breath, his arms tense and his fists clenched over the table of Achilles's study, as if he wanted to swing at Haytham for opposing their Mentor.

The Englishman glared fully at his colleague. _'Just try,'_ he thought, sneering at the captain of the _Gerfaut. 'I_ dare _you.'_

After what felt like an hour but was at most twenty seconds, Achilles set down the ruined Manuscript on his table. Both Assassins stared at him, though they carefully kept track of each other's movements from the corner of their eyes.

Why did Chevalier search for the damned thing? Why did he just _happen_ to find the fishermen who found the Manuscript caught in their nets? Was all that Connor did in vain?

Their Mentor sighed. "Chevalier, set sail for Louisburg and aid our allies against the British. Haytham, you and the two recruits I've assigned you will sail for New York on the _Flèche_. Instill some discipline in our men there, as you're so eager to do. I will see that the Manuscript is sent to you without anyone tracking it."

Haytham barely hid his scowl. Did Achilles fear he would act like Shay if he had the Manuscript in his hands?

(Not that he was wrong.)

Both he and Chevalier nodded, accepted their orders and left the Manor without a word.

* * *

"Cormac, don't stain the furniture."

"Aye, aye..." Shay carefully folded the orange flag in his hands so that blood would not drip onto the floor or eventual tables.

Usually he would carry blood-less flags, but this headquarter had put up a desperate fight instead of surrendering or fleeing the place, and with that much blood flowing... along with close quarters combat, since they had crammed everything into a couple of buildings…

Shay found no fulfillment in claiming each of their lives. He firmly reminded himself it was for the good of New York and shifted his thoughts toward a more practical track.

Charles Lee stared flatly at him. "You've encountered more trouble than expected."

He nodded. "They've learned to hide. There's no more fire, no more flagpoles." Here Shay frowned, because _everything_ had to be that much more complicated than it had any right to. He handed the stained flag to the other Templar, who took it with distaste etched on his face. "They've moved their headquarters to buildings in the center. They hang their flags inside."

Lee scowled and tossed the orange cloth in the nearest fireplace. "Anything else you should be telling the Grandmaster?"

Oh yes, definitely, if he wanted a certain woman and her husband to hunt him down throughout the whole continent.

"I'm going to tell him now: my work here will just take longer to complete." Either because Achilles found the necessary resources to relocate his headquarters, or because someone of Shay's former allies realized that their visibility only spelled doom.

It was probably Haytham.

A nod. "If at all possible, find out where they're storing their poisonous gas."

Shay swallowed an 'up their arse' before he made a fool of himself. He was _already_ working on it, thank you very much, Master Lee. "Of course."

* * *

"The Assassins are doing _what_?"

The Grandmaster looked at him. He put down the letter in his hands, let out a sigh and leaned back in his armchair. "It would seem they haven't yet given up on their search for Precursor Sites."

Cold sweat trickled down Shay's neck. He swallowed. "I thought the Manuscript was lost to them, sir."

"They managed to retrieve it, regardless." Grandmaster Stewart folded his hands on his desk, impatiently tapping it with his fingers. "We haven't succeeded in narrowing down the location of their Artifacts yet. But there are still many matters that need your expertise…"

His forearms were tense, his hands itched to do _anything_ but stay folded behind his back. How did the Assassins find the Manuscript if Connor had tossed it in the ocean? Did someone fish it out nearly two years ago and give it to them just now?

As much as Shay _needed_ to keep the Manuscript and the Box far away from Achilles's hands, he couldn't just run off on his own.

There was the Order.

There were the gangs.

There was the poisonous gas.

There were the Kanienkehaka.

There was Haytham.

Why wasn't he doing anything? Why wasn't Haytham stopping Achilles from searching for those damned Precursor Sites, as he claimed he could?

He… He didn't agree with Achilles, did he?

Alexander's armchair slid back as he got up. "Everyone will keep their ears on the ground. Everything the Assassins will do, we will know." He sighed and walked over to Shay, taking off a… necklace? "But if all that fails, we must know if the nearest Site is dangerous."

The Grandmaster laid a circular pendant in Shay's hand. It tingled, even though he had gloves on. "This," he said, "is thought to be the key to a Precursor Site in Iroquois land."

His heart turned to lead.

No, just… _no_.

Not again.

"Master Cormac, you're the only one on our side who knows how dangerous these places are." His brown eyes stared into his soul. "Only you can determine whether we should occupy the Site to keep the Assassins out of it. Only you can gain access to their land and pinpoint the location without arousing much suspicion, given your past allegiance."

Shay didn't dare blink. All those points were true, but… "Sir, if we stop the Assassins before they activate the Box…"

"What if we don't?" The Grandmaster pressed. "Prevention is better than cure, Master Cormac. The Colonies would fall if the earth were to crack here – they don't need that on top of this war."

The Irishman lowered his gaze to the pendant. A jade snake eating its own tail…

This was why he left, wasn't it? To prevent senseless slaughter. To stop the Assassins before they tore the earth apart in their own folly.

His shoulders slumped. "…Master Gist and our fleet will keep sinking the Assassins' ships. I'll leave at dawn."

Grandmaster Stewart blinked twice and nodded. Tension bled out his frame, finally relaxing under layers of blue cloth. "Have a safe journey then, and rest well, Master Cormac."

Shay highly doubted he would, but he nodded anyway.

* * *

"Ehm, Ellie…"

"Don't call me that."

Laura flinched. "Ellen, we're not supposed to-"

"Does it look like I care?" The woman gestured to her hooded face. "Read my lips: I. Don't. _Care_."

The other recruit frowned. Ellenia could get kicked out of the Brotherhood – or worse! – when she was alone: but this time Laura was tagging along, only because Master Kenway left them no order but to train.

Train _how_ , anyway? Both he and Miss Jensen had been busy telling off three other Assassins and planning Important Things all day. The only company Laura and Ellenia had were the overly-flirty criminal contacts in New York, some flighty couriers and a couple guard dogs that nearly bit off her hand.

So how were they training?

"What if they think we're Templars?"

Ellenia rolled her eyes and flattened herself to vertical wooden support of the roof. "We can explain. Master Kenway always rambles about reasons to kill and the _Creed_ – we're not getting killed, Laura."

The redhead bit back a retort and just lowered the hood on her eyes. Maybe, just _maybe_ , they weren't supposed to spy on their superiors either way? Especially when she and Ellenia had yet to become Assassins themselves?

A door opened.

Laura looked down. Master Kenway strode inside the large room with a stack of scrolls and papers – maps? Reports? – and laid them on the large table in the center, where Miss Jensen was working on some sort of liquid in a weird glass bottle.

"You're still working on that?"

"Like I'm supposed to." Miss Jensen glanced distractedly at the papers. "Why are those on my worktable?"

Master Kenway sighed and leaned on the desk with one hand. "I've just gotten them from the harbor master." Once he grabbed one of the folded documents, he pointed its contents to Miss Jensen. "We've lost four ships last month – three of which around River Valley in perfect weather and French territory."

Miss Jensen stopped handling her glass bottles to look at the other Assassin. " _Templars_ ," she spat. "And _Shay_ has destroyed our headquarters near the Greenwich district, just to make matters more difficult." She opened one of the scrolls on the table to scowl at it, drumming impatiently her fingers.

Master Kenway crossed his arms. "What about the poison?"

Wait, what poison? Laura didn't know anything about any poison. Not yet, anyway…

"It's safe. Those who move the compounds think these-" Miss Jensen gestured at her glass bottles, most of them filled with greenish or reddish liquid and carefully corked and lined. "-are explosives."

Laura frowned at that. Wasn't part of the cargo on the _Flèche_ tagged as 'explosive'? Could it be they had been sailing with a load of poison under their feet?

"Clever." Master Kenway didn't sound too glad. "Less people know about our true plans, the more likely they are to stick to our cause once they discover them – it makes _perfect_ sense."

Miss Jensen let out a heavy sigh, as if this was a well-rehearsed argument-starter. "You _know_ we can't allow information to leak, especially now that Shay is-"

Silence.

Laura didn't dare breathe. Were they found out?

"Haytham, is this still about the Artifacts?"

…What artifacts?

"That's the main issue, yes."

"Achilles makes the decisions. There's a reason he's our Mentor."

"Just because he was here first doesn't mean he's always right."

"Haytham…" Miss Jensen rounded the table to stand in front of him, but not across the wooden surface. "If we allow ourselves to fall apart now, the Brotherhood will follow. I'm sure Achilles knows what he's doing." It was a whisper almost too quiet for Laura to hear.

That wasn't the right thing to say, judging by the way Haytham flexed his fingers. "I told him, _multiple_ times, that these Precursor Sites are dangerous. Why doesn't he listen to me? Doesn't he believe me, after what happened in Lisbon?"

Lisbon? Did he mean… the earthquake?

She had heard and read the news coming from overseas, so much time ago. Thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, dead or injured by the terrible trembling and splintering of the earth.

But… there were rumors - in a few letters her adoptive father exchanged with other Assassins, when they were still in Italy - this was caused by someone.

How does someone cause an _earthquake_?

Miss Jensen hesitated. "Whoever holds these Artifacts gains absolute power. We must get them before the Templars do."

"We should stop meddling with those godforsaken things!" Master Kenway snapped, making the other Assassin flinch back. She never heard him sound so upset… "The Manuscript belongs to the bottom of the ocean along with that damned Box, Hope, regardless of what Achilles says."

Silence, again.

Miss Jensen turned to her poison bottles on the table with as much grace as she could muster after that. "I'm not the one giving the orders, Haytham. Gather up those papers and bring them somewhere else."

Well, they have clearly heard far more than they should have, so Laura was all set to flee the scene before something happened. They could get horribly _killed_ for this knowledge! Not even her oh-so-gifted 'Sight' would save her from dangling off a noose if-

"Get down here!"

…Shit.

Laura looked down.

Both Assassins were staring up at them.

…Was Miss Jensen's hand creeping toward her gun on the table?

Master Kenway put his hands on his hips. "Both of you, get _down_ _here_."

Laura and Ellenia exchanged a glance. The brash woman was scowling, as if she just got caught with her hands in a cookie jar and wanted to blame her other sibling for making noise.

And Laura? Only her sweat and trembling hands set her apart from a stone statue.

They wordlessly decided to confront their fate head on and climbed down the wooden beams and the wall. It was a task harder than any Laura had ever undertaken, and that included her first endurance session when she had to run around Davenport until her legs were reduced to numb putty.

Miss Jensen pursed her blood red lips, her eyes akin to burning embers ready to ignite once more. Even with her hood off – or maybe _because_ of that – Laura felt more exposed than ever to the Assassin's venomous stare.

She looked positively murderous.

Laura stared at Master Kenway, who looked a bit less murderous.

"You weren't supposed to hear any of that." He scoffed. "Although your stealth is commendable and practicing in the safety of our headquarters is a good initiative, you could have eavesdropped on less sensitive discussions."

Ellenia threw all good sense out of the window with her next words. "The rumors of Lisbon are all true, then? Was it the Assassins' doing?"

"Yes."

How did someone even _think_ to start an earthquake?!

Miss Jensen shot a deadly glare in Kenway's direction. "We're finding the Artifacts to keep them away from Templar hands."

"Templars who won't mess with them, because this Shay left us for them."

Laura shot a terrified glance at her fellow recruit. Was she _begging_ to get killed? They just eavesdropped on secret information and Ellenia was digging her own grave with each word!

"We can't know that," Miss Jensen whispered, hard as steel.

"If they wanted to do that, Shay would have left them… or killed them, most likely." Master Kenway crossed his arms and ignored the furious glance Hope threw his way. "Nonetheless, I'm sure you realize this isn't information you should spread."

Laura nodded frantically. She wasn't telling anyone about this… weird, confusing mess of information. This was far more than she was promised…

Ellenia grudgingly agreed with a grunt.

Miss Jensen ground her jaw and tapped her fingers just beside her gun. She turned to the door behind her. "Guards, get in here!"

Four orange-clothed men scrambled into the huge room.

She nodded to Laura and Ellenia. "Escort them to their sleeping quarters. Don't let them wander." Her glare hardened, and Laura glued her eyes to the ground. "We'll decide a _proper_ punishment for them tomorrow."

* * *

 _'_ _Feels like sitting in a pot of boiling water.'_

Shay made a show of inspecting the cave to ignore Ziio's glare. Her piercing glare seemed to focus her impatience just behind his skull like a magnifying glass focuses sunlight on a dry leaf.

Did she expect him to spontaneously burst into flames? Probably: one could never know with Precursor Sites.

He shuddered and hoped it was not the case.

Fortunately, the cave didn't lead down into the bowels of the earth and there was no golden-glowing bridge waiting for them at the end. Just silence and a blessedly opaque stone wall, albeit with Precursor carvings under some rust-colored paintings.

But how much tampering would it take to…?

"Is this what you were looking for?"

Slowly, Shay nodded. He reached for the warm Amulet hanging on his neck like a noose. It took him a second to notice only his hand was trembling, and not the Artifact.

The heat spreading from the Amulet intensified as it started faintly glowing.

With his insides turned to molten lead in his gut, Shay took a step towards the wall and offered the Amulet to the cruel Spirit of Lisbon.

The wall hummed in crescendo, an azure light bled into the carvings and gathered around a perfectly round hole in the stone - this was it, the door would be opened and-

The wall hummed, its sapphire blood dimmed and silence rang in his ears to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

No tremors.

No earthquake.

Safe.

Shay breathed out. "It's not the right place."

"It's not Lisbon?"

His head snapped back toward the woman. How…? "What did Haytham tell you?"

Ziio slowly circled him and he mirrored her, never taking his eyes off her. There was no telling how this meeting would end… sharp words of warning, or a blade stuck in their ribcage?

"He told me enough." Her dark eyes fixed on his own like those of a hawk. "He believed you _dead_ , Shay. We all mourned you. How dare you return here, as a traitor?"

He told her _everything_? "I'm not a traitor to your tribe, Ziio."

A bittersweet smirk thinned her lips. "I am well aware of that: the Oneida have not forgotten to mention you."

So that was why Oia:ner didn't look too surprised to see Shay up and running. He had been too distracted by Little Ghost-Connor, carelessly rushing through mud and bushes with a gaggle of other children – he wasn't Connor (yet?), but his mind had still been otherwise occupied with a certain confession…

Blood rushed to his cheeks. He resisted the urge to scratch. Missing that huge detail could still mean the death of him, either now or when Haytham got to him.

"I know what that cross means." Her fingers curled into fists. "I know what the Templars did to my husband."

He didn't want to cut this tension between them with his blades. He had met her, spoke with her, groaned whenever Haytham failed at hiding his love for her and he tried to understand the vows they exchanged on their wedding. He saw their son, both little and grown, with hands dirtied both by playing in the mud and stabbing people in the gut.

Was there still a way both of them could get out of that cave uninjured?

Was there a way he wouldn't have to leave a young boy without mother and his friend without wife?

"…Do you want to kill me?"

Ziio pursed her lips. After a few seconds, she leaned back and tilted her head. "Unless you plan on coming back and threatening us, no, I do not. If Haytham was right about you, you won't."

Shay breathed out.

"But…"

She took two menacing steps forward, her hand itching to a dagger surely hidden under her layers of leather and fur. Her teeth resembled the bared fangs of a wolf facing a cornered stag.

"Make me a widow, and I'll make you a corpse. Understood?"

He nodded.

Never let it be said he wanted to meet his maker by turning a mother into a huntress out for his blood.

* * *

 **From now on, consider Canon well and truly screwed. Things will get worse and more awkward than ever! :D**

Qual era la parola per coltelli…?: **What was the word for 'knives'…?**

Flèche: **Arrow**


End file.
